Essence of Forever
by foreverHenry919
Summary: This story takes place roughly two years after the series finale. The secret of Henry's immortality has been known to his colleagues for the past year. Jo and Henry are now engaged and planning a June wedding. Adam is still at Bellevue in his second year of locked-in-syndrome, so he has not been a threat to anyone for quite a while. Henry's elderly son, Abraham, although in the twi
1. Essence of Forever Ch 1 to 4

Chapter 1

"Odd. Very odd." The immortal ME, Dr. Henry Morgan, muttered and knelt on one knee, head bowed as his eyes roamed the length of a black female's nude, lifeless body at the edge of the Hudson River. He held her hands in his gloved hands and spread her fingers, examining them. "No sign of shriveling so she couldn't have been in the water very long." He gently touched the small puncture on her chest that looked recently formed and frowned in confusion. "Very odd, indeed."

"Why would she have been skinny dipping in the dirty Hudson?" Jo knitted her brow and shook her head.

"Think she might have fallen overboard from some pleasure boat or something?" Hanson speculated. "Everybody got drunk, didn't notice that she'd left the party?" He shrugged as Jo gave him a 'Really?' look.

Henry sighed and stood up. He pulled off his gloves and brushed the dirt and sand from the knee of his pants leg.

"C'mon, Henry, what do you see?" Jo asked impatiently.

Before he could form a reply, Assistant ME, Lucas Wahl, suddenly squatted down, cradling his camera in one hand. "Gunshot wound?" Lucas asked. "It looks kinda like your chest wound."

"No, this wound was not caused by a bullet." He furrowed his brow and studied the scar closer. "More like the result of an ice pick having been jammed into her chest." He emphasized his words by play acting a swift, downward, jabbing motion. "Death would have come to her within minutes, if not instantaneously. The ice pick would have penetrated her heart."

"Oh, gross. Poor lady." Lucas groaned and snapped a few photos of the scar. "But wouldn't the internal hemorrhaging have caused her body to swell?"

"Yes. Very good, Lucas. Once the ice pick was removed, the wound would have closed up, not allowing the resultant hemorrhaging to escape." He sighed in frustration.

"So, why isn't she swollen?" Jo asked.

"Good question, Detective," Henry replied. "The sooner we get her body back to the morgue, the sooner we can examine it and try to come up with some answers."

Jo's phone buzzed and while she answered it, Hanson's phone buzzed and he answered his. Jo closed up her phone, her eyes wide with disbelief, her face paled. "There's another body. Another nude woman. East River near the park." she managed to stammer out.

Hanson closed up his phone and eyed them all incredulously. "Got a nude body of a Hispanic male at the base of the bridge, East River."

Two unis ran up to them and breathlessly informed them of another nude body of a man a few yards away to their left. The screams of several onlookers caught their attention. They turned to see several people pointing to what appeared to be a nude body washing ashore right in front of them. The two detectives and two ME's were rendered speechless. All they could do was stare at each other.

Jo was the first to shake off her haze. She phoned Lt. Reece to apprise her of the growing situation and the need for backup. She closed up her phone again and groaned when the first of the TV news vans rolled up.

"Keep those vultures away from here." She instructed the two unis who nodded and quickly moved to secure the scene and control the crowd.

Hanson jogged over to inspect the body that had just washed ashore. Henry instructed Lucas to accompany Hanson, which he did. Two more black-and-white's rolled up and uni's jumped out of them. Hanson motioned them over and spoke to them, pointing to the body, then to the crowd and TV news van. They nodded and joined their uniformed colleagues in controlling the crowd and securing the two scenes.

Jo caught up with Henry just as he'd knelt to examine what turned out to be the nude body of an Asian male.

"Look, Jo." He pointed to a deep laceration on the lower, left side of the man's torso that appeared to be newly healing and old at the same time. The scar was similar to one his father had had on his right, upper arm; a wound he'd suffered in a sword fight in one of the battles during the uprising in the colonies of the 1770's (the American Revolution).

"What made that wound?" Jo asked.

"A sword." Henry quietly replied as he silently pondered this strange turn of events with multiple nude bodies turning up near these two waterways and two, so far, with only a single scar that looked to be in the first stages of healing and ... old ... at the same time. Similar to his own scar on his chest.

"A sword?" she repeated, confused. "Who fights with swords anymore?"

He stood up, looked at her and sighed. "It may well be a very old wound, Jo," he said quietly as he placed a hand on his chest. He nodded slightly as her eyes widened, realization spreading across her face.

She lowered her voice and stepped closer to him. "If you're implying what I think you are, then ... why are they ... dead?"

He inhaled deeply and swallowed. "I have no idea." He looked down at the 20-something man's body again. Had these people been immortals who had found a way out? If so, had they found it voluntarily or involuntarily? Was this possible? It was only one of the burning questions he'd had for more than 200 years. Although he no longer wanted to die anytime soon, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the possibility that there was a way out that could maybe be ... controlled?

Jo and Henry turned to see Hanson and Lucas approaching them. The four of them met halfway between the two most recently discovered bodies. Hanson scratched the back of his head and failed to meet the couple's eyes. Lucas' eyes, as well, were downcast, an air of reluctance about him.

Henry brushed it off and proceeded to share his initial observations of both the young black woman's and young Asian man's nude bodies, including his suspicions regarding their unusual scars. "Well, Lucas, what did you find after examining the body that just washed ashore?"

Lucas nervously exchanged a quick glance with Hanson. "Seems to fit the pattern with these others, Doc. White male, late 30's to early 40's, no visible marks or scars on the body other than a strange scar at the base of the skull that looks recent and old."

Henry frowned and peered over at the man's body, now covered by a black tarp. "What caused the wound, in your opinion?"

"A foot, perhaps, like someone stomped on the back of his neck. Maybe a bat or - "

"Or maybe the butt of a rifle?" Henry ventured.

Lucas looked at him in awe. "Yeah. Yeah. That might be it."

Henry took a few steps in the direction of the man's body, then turned suddenly to face all of them. "Of course, these are only initial observations and suspicions. Once we get them all back to the morgue and complete our autopsies, we should have more definite answers." He marched off towards the coroner's vans and Lucas hurried to fall into step with him.

Hanson watched the two ME's walk away, a concerned look on his face.

"What is it, Mike?" Jo asked. She watched him turn towards each of the three bodies, then faced her again.

"I think you know already, don't you?"

She at first looked surprised, then her features grew somber. She nodded slightly, her eyes cast downward as they walked the short distance to their cars.

"I mean if these people were at one time like the Doc ... and now they're dead ... "

She suddenly didn't want to hear anything more and picked up her pace away from him and to her car. "See ya back at the precinct, Mike."

"Sorry, Jo," he called to her. "Jo - "

She held up a hand but didn't look back at him.

vvvv

Dinner at the Morgan residence was a somber affair. Abe eyed his father suspiciously. His eyes dropped to the half-eaten lasagne (Mom's special recipe) on his plate. Jo's empty chair didn't help the palled atmosphere any. Abe dropped his fork back down onto his plate and leaned back in his chair.

"Okay, Dad, what's eating you? And where is Jo? Not like her to miss dinner, especially my famous lasagne."

Henry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, Abraham. Dinner is delicious, thank you."

"You're welcome," he said unblinkingly. "Why isn't Jo here?" He sat forward in his chair and pointed an accusing finger at his father. "You guys have a lover's quarrel or something? You didn't blow this, did you, Dad?"

Henry blew out a sigh of frustration and tilted his head. "No, Abraham. We didn't quarrel and I didn't 'blow' it, as you say." He looked at her empty chair and lowered his eyes to his plate. He pushed it away from him and sighed again. "She's doing her job, following up clues on several apparent drowning victims."

"I saw the news, Dad," he said dryly. "They didn't drown, did they?"

Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat then met his son's gaze with a grim stare. "It doesn't appear that they drowned, no." He rose from his seat and walked slowly towards the kitchen entrance, then turned and walked back, his hands shoved down into his pockets. "They ... may have been like me, Abe."

"Immortal?" he barely whispered.

Henry nodded, staring off into space. "Yes."

"But how ... how did they wind up dead?"

He chuckled a bit and lowered his head. "That's what Jo asked me earlier. I'll tell you what I told her: I have no idea."

"But this is remarkable. They found a way out, a way to end their long lives." He studied his father's troubled features. "Isn't that what you say you've been searching for since, like, forever?"

He chuckled mirthlessly again. "I understand what you're asking, Abe, but now that I'm happy with Jo and we're about to be married, my colleagues - friends, actually - know of my condition and accept me, I find that living is all I want to do now. Leaving this world anytime soon no longer appeals to me."

"Soooo, you're worried that ... ?"

He suddenly became more animated. "I'm worried that these people, these other immortals, may or may not have been helped along to their individual ends. If I weren't sure of where Adam is, I'd say that he had a hand in this." He sat back down in his chair and pursed his lips. "What if there is someone out there targeting people like me with the sole intention of ridding the world of us?"

Abe shook a finger in the air and then laid it against his lips. "I would say that you've been dealing with murderers and murder victims a little too long. It's coloring your judgment." His eyes shifted back and forth as he gathered his thoughts. "What if their time simply ran out?"

Henry's brow furrowed and his eyes darted around the room. That possibility had never even occurred to him.

Abe shrugged as he continued. "Who says that immortality does not have an expiration date on it? If they were like you, they probably only knew when it started, but not how or why."

"That's an interesting theory, Abraham, but you're right; I have been dealing with murder suspects and their victims for a long time. My gut tells me that there are more sinister forces afoot than simply the cycle of life having caught up with them naturally." He rose from his chair again and grabbed his outer coat and scarf. As he hurried down the stairs, he called out, "Don't wait up for me. I'll be late."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the morgue for some answers!"

Chapter 2:

The 11th Precinct the following afternoon ...

"How many so far?" Lt. Reece asked Mike and Jo as she paused to sign off on a supplies requisition. She released the clipboard and handed the pen back to a uniformed officer and turned her attention back to the two detectives.

"Four, so far." Mike replied.

"So far?" Reece raised her eyebrows. "Sounds like you're expecting more."

"Well, there were five, initially, but the Hispanic male who washed up under the bridge in the East River has been ruled a suicide by drowning. Plus, he wasn't nude; just shirtless and shoeless." Mike explained.

"We're definitely hoping to keep the number of nude bodies with strange scars down to the four we've already recovered." Jo added. "Both Henry and Lucas have been at it almost day and night trying to find a COD for any of them."

"No COD for any of them yet?" Reece asked, surprised. "The frustration of not knowing must be killing Morgan. No pun intended."

The three of them had walked from the detectives' desks to Reece's office door. She turned and asked, "Have you managed to ID any of the four yet?"

Jo and Mike exchanged uneasy looks. "Um, yeah. Could we ... ?" she motioned with a quick nod that she preferred the privacy of Reece's office to continue their reporting.

Reece nodded, turned around and went and sat behind her desk. Mike and Jo entered the office, closing the door behind them, and sat in the two smaller chairs facing her. She waited for one of them to speak. When they didn't immediately, she lowered her head and stared more intently at them.

Mike cleared his throat and fidgeted before speaking. "We found public records on each of them dating back only five or six years, like in Henry's case. None had a criminal background, though, except for," he scoffed, "numerous arrests for public nudity near both the Hudson and East Rivers." He glanced apologetically at Jo. "Like in Henry's case."

Reece reacted with slightly raised eyebrows and an almost inaudible sigh. "Have you found any ... older records on any of them?"

"Yes, we have for the black female," Jo replied. She consulted her small, blue-lined notepad.

"The, uh, records are spotty on all of them, but they date back as far as the early 1900's for her, tentatively identified as Hattie Fields born 1902, in Pine Bluff, Arkansas." She glanced up to catch Reece's stiffening at that fact. Jo consulted her notes again.

"In 1934, she was a widowed mother of three who took up with a man named Paul Nation, who murdered her, orphaning her children. He'd shoved an ice pick into her heart because she wanted to end the relationship." She licked her dry lips and looked up from her notes. "By all accounts, she should be nearly 115 years old, but her body is that of a woman in her early to mid-30's."

She flipped the pages of her notepad and forced her voice to remain clear and calm. "The Caucasian male whose body washed ashore is tentatively identified as David Gregson, born 1909 - "

Reece put up a hand to stop her. "How old were these people supposed to have been?"

Mike jumped in to answer, sensing that Jo needed a bit of a break. "Hattie Fields, 114; Gregson, 108; the Caucasian female, Margaret Greene, 132; the Asian male, Ming Tong," he looked up from his notes and sighed. "Still working on it but we've managed to find immigration records where he came through Angel Island, that match him. We need professional genealogists to pull up anything further back on him."

"And to confirm the records we've found already," Jo added.

"Tong could be the oldest of the four. The Doc is convinced that his scar was caused by a curved sword like a saber. He's consulting with The Frenchman on just what type of weapon could have caused that scar. That would help to pinpoint when the guy met his first death." He still couldn't believe that that kind of language could fall so easily from his lips: first death. Even after knowing of Henry's condition for more than a year and having no qualms about him as both a colleague and friend, it was still a bit startling to be reminded of it.

"No outside genealogists, we can't risk exposure of Dr. Morgan's condition. And I'm not ready to visit the funny farm - are you?" She looked from one to the other and they shook their heads and smiled a bit. "We need someone who can most definitely be discreet and one person comes to mind."

"Abe," Jo said. Mike nodded in agreement.

"So. We enlist Abe's help in the genealogy department and you two keep looking for a connection between these four who may have managed to avoid Father Time's touch longer than normal." They both nodded.

"Okay. Get to it, you two." Reece said. She proceeded to make a call and they knew the meeting was over.

Once back in the bullpen, they huddled around Jo's desk and realized that they didn't have a clue of how to go about connecting the four.

"Well, they all had jobs," Mike said, frowning. "They all spent money."

"Follow the money," Jo said, nodding.

"Good a place to start as any," Mike agreed, pushing his chair backward and rolling back to his own desk.

"One of these days you're gonna hurt yourself doing that," Jo smirked.

"Uh, look," he pointed a playful finger at her, " I got only one Mom and she lives on Long Island. She don't work here."

She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him but couldn't help laughing a little. The little bit of levity was good for them both. She shook her head and turned to her computer as he mugged at her and laughed a bit, too.

vvvv

At the same time in the morgue ...

Assistant ME, Lucas Wahl placed the last of the four back into the freezer and locked the outside latch. He walked over to Henry's office and stopped at the door. Henry sat behind his desk with his elbows on his desk, his forehead resting on his raised, clasped hands. Lucas cleared his throat to get his attention.

"Yes, Lucas," Henry asked as he looked up at his young assistant. The weariness in his voice matched the tiredness in his eyes.

"They're all back in the freezer." He said quietly.

"Good. Thank you, Lucas." Henry rested his forehead on his hands again. "You've been a big help today."

"Thanks, Doc, but I don't feel like I've done much since we weren't able to come up with any answers about how they died."

Henry suddenly straightened and sat up in his chair, his eyes darting around the room as he 'brainflashed' as Lucas called it. Lucas happily noticed the familiar change in his boss' demeanor that always preceded an 'Aha moment'.

"No answers yet about how they died but what about how they lived?" He quickly rose from his chair and exchanged his white lab coat for his outer coat and scarf. As he donned them, he walked toward Lucas and explained that they must take a closer look at their personal lives in order to find out how they all seemed to have suffered identical deaths at the same time and in relatively identical areas.

"But isn't that what the detectives do?" Lucas asked.

"Yes!" Henry gleefully exclaimed as he situated his scarf around his neck.

"So we're gonna conduct our own little investigation?"

"Yes!" Henry gleefully exclaimed again, turning his dazzling smile to him.

"Uh, I dunno, Doc. Remember how much trouble we got in when I took that pugio dagger out of the Evidence Lockup for you?"

Henry pursed his lips and stared at him from under furrowed brows. "Yes, I remember, Lucas, but we still have our jobs here because Lt. Reece realized that those were extraordinary circumstances we were dealing with."

Lucas nodded, "Yeah, copy that." But he was still not quite convinced he wanted to bend the rules again so soon. Or ever.

"Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures, Lucas." Henry continued with his piercing stare. He slowly nodded and grinned in sync with Lucas as he gradually accepted the idea of his immortal boss and him partnering up to solve this latest mystery.

"Yeah. Sure. Why not? You and me. Batman and Robin. Sherlock and Watson. Hart to Hart. Oh, wait, that would mean I'd be Jennifer Hart, a woman - which I'm not. And all she did mostly was yell out for Jonathan to protect her, which I can carry my own water - "

Henry frowned and suddenly turned and briskly began walking out of the morgue.

Lucas quickly shifted gears to follow him. "Okay. Not relevant. Where we goin'? Oh! Following you, right." Henry punched the elevator button and gave a pointed look to Lucas. "And - shutting up." He clamped his lips together and nodded, suddenly feigning great interest in the elevator doors.

Henry smiled inwardly at his antics. His affection for him had grown but he felt that the good-natured young man, although highly intelligent, lacked self-discipline and still needed a certain amount of guidance and direction. And he knew he could trust Lucas to help him unfold this mystery of the four dead immortals.

Mike called out and motioned Jo over to his computer screen with one hand as he worked his mouse with the other. Jo quickly joined him and peered at the screen over his shoulder.

"Hattie Fields aka Harriet Fields aka Harriet Fielding aka Harriet Fieldings." He turned his head slightly toward Jo, keeping his eyes on the screen and said, "Looks like she didn't really wanna give up her married name. Maiden name was Cook per a 1927 marriage record I found on ." He placed his cursor at the top of the browser and clicked on another open tab.

"You're sure that's her marriage record?" Jo asked.

"Yeah. Her parents' names are a match for the 1900 census record I found with all three of them in the household with two younger siblings. The man she married in 1927, Martin Fields, is listed nearby on the same page with a grandmother and an uncle." He grinned a little and muttered, "This stuff is fascinating."

"Yeah, and Abe is supposed to be doing this." She waved off his mock glare and sighed. "Okay, so the Hattie Fields I found in 1910, born in Pine Bluff was not her?"

"No. You gotta look at death records for the siblings, death records for a couple of her kids ... like that. Anyway, maiden name was Cook. She was born in Rankin County in Mississippi, Dec 1899. Subsequent census records match up for all of them up to 1940. By then, though, she's listed as Hattie Cook, a 34-year-old aunt to the three kids she'd had with Fields." He smiled haughtily at her.

"Because she was supposed to have died in 1934 and couldn't still be documented as their mother. I wonder if they knew?" she barely whispered.

"Who? Knew what?" he asked, distracted.

"Her kids. I wonder if they knew that their mother was immortal?"

He finally turned and looked directly at her. "Gee, I don't know, Jo. Guess we'll never know." He turned back to the computer screen. "If they did, they probably took the secret to their graves. They'd be pretty old themselves if any are still alive."

He clicked another open tab at the top of the browser. "Anyway, that was the old, this is the new. Or, rather, the newest." The screen displayed banking and credit card records for one of her aliases, Harriet Fieldings. "Looks like that was the last alias she used. It matches DMV and birth records for her, at least what was most recently in the system for her," he added. He scrolled down some more and stopped at a transaction that showed a payment made three weeks prior to something called Essence of Life.

"This has gotta be some kind of scam. There was an infomercial that came on TV about 1:00 in the morning that Karen used to watch. Essence of Life," he scoffed. "Git your past life regressions right here," he scoffed again, mimicking the slick voice of an oldtime snake oil hawker. "The guy behind it all, James Wyndham, is a Tony Robbins wannabe. A real hinky version of him. Anyway, he claims he can regress people, open up their minds, take them back to their past lives, and ... "

Jo chuckled. "And what?"

"According to what he's shoveling, help them to tap into the 'essence' of each of their past lives, the best parts so they can use that to squish together ... a ... better ... you in the present ... I don't know, it was just a bunch of crap!" It was obvious that the whole thing disgusted him. "More like just open up your wallets, empty your pockets. Guy's got nothing worth buyin'," he huffed.

"Okay," she drew out. "So she got scammed before she died. What's so remarkable about that?" She frowned and asked, "Wait, you think she may have confronted him, demanded her money back or something and he killed her instead?"

"Doc didn't find any COD for her or for the others," he reminded her. "What's remarkable is that David Gregson's bank records show cancelled checks made out to Essence of Life, as well. Last check he wrote was three and a half weeks ago." He glanced over at her computer screen then back at her.

She quickly sat back in her seat and brought up Margaret Greene's bank records. Mike followed her and took a viewing position behind her. As the information displayed on her screen, she shook her head and smiled.

"Essence of Life. Last payment made three weeks ago." She leaned her head against her fingers and shook her head. What in the world could have happened to these people, she wondered. And was Wyndham responsible for their deaths?

"So they were paying on different dates but when did their actual sessions take place?" Mike pondered. They looked at each other and came to the same conclusion.

"Let's pay Wyndham a house call," Jo said.

"We need a warrant," Mike stated.

"I'm on it," Jo replied.

"And a good night's sleep first." He directed her attention to the wall clock and the late hour, 11:40 PM.

"Oh. Well." She shrugged and grabbed her purse and jacket, closing down her computer. "Tomorrow, then. Bright and early."

Mike nodded, shut down his computer, and armed into his jacket. "Bright and early."

vvvv

Across town at Abe's Antiques ...

Lucas Wahl's long form lay asleep and snoring in the sitting room. His ankles propped up on one of the arms, while his feet stuck out over the edge of the arm. It had been a long day working with Henry in the morgue as they'd failed to find a COD for any of the four dead (suspected) immortals. After a hearty serving of Abe's leftover lasagne, he'd spent the next few hours pulling up public records on them via Henry's new laptop (purchased at Jo's insistence to help bring him into the modern era). The long day and the home-cooked meal had literally knocked him out.

Henry smiled at him for a moment, then covered him with a comforter from the spare bedroom. They'd made good progress toward piecing together the last known addresses and work places of the four mysterious cadavers in the morgue and a list of possible relatives and co-workers. He and Lucas agreed to start tomorrow by visiting and interviewing a man named Paul Fields in Queens, believed to be a grandson of Hattie Fields/Fieldings.

Abe had been able to use his own laptop to gather some documentation of a genealogical nature that helped piece together a sparse family tree for each of the four, including military and vital records. Ming Tong's suspected long history, prior to four years ago, remained elusive. Abe had shuddered a bit at Henry's suggestion that he accompany him when he visited The Frenchman to get her expert opinion of what type of sword had possibly made the wound on Tong's torso.

"She could possibly give you some tips on pulling up Tong's ancestry and help verify if he is indeed the same man who in 1915, passed through Angel Island, the Ellis Island of the West Coast." Henry had urged. He stifled his laughter when Abe's eyes grew wider and he silently mouthed "No way" to him.

Satisfied that Lucas was properly bedded down ... well, as properly as he could be under the circumstances ... he decided to call it a night, too. He paused at Abe's bedroom door and was met with silence. He gently pushed the door open to make sure he was properly bedded down, too. Abe was fast asleep and the sight wrangled a deep yawn from him. He shook his head and closed the door back. When finally he made it to his own room, he stripped down to just his boxers and crawled beneath the covers, nestling his head into the pillows. He missed Jo, but at the same time, was glad she had not shown up to spend the night. They hadn't made their engagement public yet and if both she and Lucas were there in the morning, it would make for an awkward situation. Sleep overtook him with dreams of Jo and him admiring the city lights of Paris below from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

vvvv

At approximately 6:30 AM, search warrant in hand, Jo, Mike and a half-dozen uniformed officers arrived at James Wyndham's newly-renovated, $15M luxury rental on Bleecker in the heart of Greenwich Village. One uni stood guard at the entrance, another plodded down the alley to the back exit and stood guard there. The two detectives flashed their badges at the security personnel behind the counter in the center of the lobby and a uni remained there. The other three unis rode the boutique elevator with them up from the renovated lobby.

"So this is what running a scam buys ya these days in New York, huh?" Mike huffed sarcastically as he took in the opulence.

"Apparently, so," Jo dryly replied.

The doors opened onto a full floor loft with tons of windows and light. A huge open space greeted them with nearly 20 desks. Empty desks. It was obvious that two of the three large rooms were being used as offices; the third, as living quarters.

"James Wyndham, show yourself! This is the NYPD! Show yourself!" Jo yelled loudly. "We have a warrant to search these premises!" She listened but was met with silence. "James Wyndham, this is Det. Jo Martinez of the NYPD!" More silence.

Jo motioned for them all to spread out. "Clear" rang out from different corners across the large loft. Jo crept into the living quarters with her weapon drawn straight out in front of her. She worked her way through the kitchen and past a bathroom that was larger than her own master bedroom and master bath combined. Focus. She shook her head. Focus. She heard Mike yell out "Clear" behind her. As she neared the bedroom, she sensed a presence. She swung in with her weapon aimed and was met with the sight of the man she knew to be James Wyndham, pointing a gun at her with shaky hands.

"NYPD! Drop the gun, Wyndham! Drop the gun now!"

"It, it wasn't my fault. Th-they weren't supposed to, to, to die," he stammered out, the gun shaking more. "They didn't re-respond like my other clients."

"Drop. The. Gun!" she ordered him again.

"Yes, yes, allright. Allright." He lowered the weapon and let it drop onto the bed.

"Hands above your head!" He complied and tightly shut his eyes.

"On the floor, face down!" He once again complied.

"Hands behind your back! Lace them!"

"Allright, allright, Officer. I'm, I'm not resisting," he sobbed.

"Jo!" Mike yelled out.

"Back here, Mike! Bedroom!" She slapped the cuffs on him and waited for Mike to join her. He did, along with the three unis who quickly took charge of Wyndham and the weapon he'd tossed onto the bed. She stepped aside as the unis read him his rights at her instruction.

After a thorough search of Wyndham's residence, evidence was uncovered connecting him to each of the four victims and they brought him in for questioning regarding their deaths.

vvvv

Henry and Lucas stood on the doorstep of a 1920's wood frame bungalow. Henry rang the doorbell and they waited several moments. Henry's eyes danced over the neighborhood and he fondly recalled when most of the houses were new back in the 1920's.

"Shouldn't we give it another ring?" Lucas asked.

Henry smiled and pressed the doorbell again. After a few moments, they heard the faint shuffle of footsteps on a hardwood floor that gradually became louder as someone approached the door. An elderly black woman in her late 70's or early 80's pulled the door open only as far as the chain lock allowed.

She eyed the two men up and down suspiciously. "Yes?" she asked, frowning.

"Good morning, Madam," Henry politely began. "My name is Dr. Henry Morgan, I work with the City as a Medical Examiner. This is my assistant, Mr. Lucas Wahl."

"And?" she asked, this time with a great deal of impatience.

He clasped his hands together in front of him to hide his nervousness and cleared his throat to respond. "We have reason to believe that a Mr. Paul Fields lives here. We'd like to speak with him about ... a recently deceased relative of his." He stumbled over the last few words, then cleared his throat again and added, "Hattie Fieldings."

He noticed the subtle but definite change in her demeanor that fleetingly passed. He was impressed by how quickly she'd managed to regain her composure. Something he'd also learned to do over the last two centuries out of sheer necessity in order to keep his condition or certain aspects of his life secret. He was also certain that he'd heard a second set of footsteps approach the door and stop just behind the elderly woman. The footsteps of a person with a stronger, quicker gait.

"He ain't here. You need to leave." She began to shut the door but was prevented to do so when someone else's hand grabbed the doorknob.

Henry raised his head to look behind the woman as a taller man in his mid 40's peered at him and Lucas. The man bent down and whispered something to the woman and he gently pryed her hand from the doorknob. He kissed her on the cheek as she turned away, shaking her head. He pushed the door slightly forward, removed the chain lock and opened the door more fully.

"I'm Paul Fields. What is it you want to know about my ... about Hattie?"

"Ah, yes, for starters, why no one came to claim her body?" Indeed, why no one had come to claim either of the four bodies.

Paul's eyes met Henry's in a deep gaze then he lowered them and his eyelids fluttered a bit. He laughed softly to himself and rubbed his chin as if considering something. He finally seemed to reach a decision and opened the door, motioning for them to enter. "Come on in, gentlemen."

vvvv

"My client," Elgin McTavish announced, "has willingly agreed to make a statement in exchange for immunity." The well-dressed, balding man with a white mustache and mingly gray, close-cropped goatee sat tall and straight in his chair and exuded great confidence - and sleaze, Mike thought to himself.

"Immunity? Your client," Mike pointed out, "is the only suspect we're lookin' at in the possible murders of four people."

"They weren't murdered!" Wyndham groaned and banged his fist on the small table. He yanked his arm away from his lawyer's hand. "They simply ... died." He shrugged and shook his head.

"Has any of your other customers ever died during your sessions?" Jo queried.

"No," he replied, his hand covering his eyes.

"Well, why don't you tell us what happened to them before they simply ... died?" she asked.

McTavish placed his hand once again on Wyndham's arm and informed him, "You don't have to answer that. They haven't offered you a deal yet."

Wyndham looked helplessly at Jo, then up at Mike. He sighed and made great efforts to rein in his emotions. "Look. I hypnotize people as part of their therapy, okay? Guide them through past life regressions."

Mike made a loud huffing sound but said nothing after Jo gave him a look. She returned her attention to Wyndham.

"Go on."

"All my other customers, as you call them, successfully retrieved buried memories of their past lives and were able to harvest the positive energies and best personality traits from each of them and incorporate them into their daily lives in the present." His eyes darted back and forth several times from Jo then to Mike. "You don't believe me," he stated.

"Of course, we don't, it's a bunch of crap!" Mike yelled, leaning forward into Wyndham's face, both hands on the table. "Admit it. Fieldings, Greene, Gregson and Tong all realized that you'd taken their hard-earned money and sold them a bunch of hot air."

"No," Wyndham shook his head in vigorous denial.

"Each one came back and confronted you, demanded a refund - "

"No!" Wyndham protested louder. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all."

"What happened, then?" Jo cut in, giving Mike a chance to cool down.

Wyndham exhaled a sigh of frustration. "Look, they came back, like your partner said, but ... not for a refund." He rubbed his forehead and inhaled deeply. "They didn't have past lives to regress to," he explained. "They had past deaths that they revisited and relived. Once I got the ball rolling, so to speak, by what I thought was regressing them to their first past life, it became clear that they had only lived one life but had experienced many deaths." He shook off his lawyer's hand again and turned to face him.

"Look, I have to tell someone. I don't care if you still refuse to believe me or if they (nodding his head toward the two detectives) think I'm crazy." He shifted in his seat to face Jo again. "This is what happened to them."

"Okay. They began to live through their past deaths again. How did they wind up dying?" she asked.

"Well, like I said, once I regressed them or got them to the point of reliving their most recent death, it snowballed on its own into them reliving each death before that and before that until ... until they reached their first death that they claimed had made them ... immortal." He whispered the last word, his eyes wide with amazement at the utterance, at the mere thought of something like that being real. He looked pleadingly at Jo then at Mike.

"They wanted me to stop it but I didn't know how. They felt like they were really going to die for good if they experienced their first death again." A nervous laugh escaped from him as he looked at the two detectives. "Don't you see? They must have just been crazy. Nobody is immortal! Nobody lives forever! It's just not in the cards for anybody." He leaned back in his chair and calmed his features, and slowly clasped his hands before him on the table. "I did not kill them. I didn't do anything wrong," he stated calmly and defiantly stuck his chin out.

McTavish cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Well, there you have it. You have no evidence that my client did anything other than confer with and comfort these people who were obviously deranged with an odd fixation on immortality. They simply worried themselves to death, nothing more, nothing less." He stood and picked up his briefcase and slung his overcoat over his other arm. Wyndham slowly stood, as well. "Either charge my client or we're leaving. Now."

Mike glared at Wyndham and his lawyer. Jo sighed and reminded Wyndham not to leave town. The two men moved to exit the room when Wyndham paused and turned around to face Jo, who to him seemed more approachable. He'd given up on trying to effectively communicate with Mike, the "bad cop" of the two.

"Talk to Hattie's ... Ms. Fieldings' cousin, Paul Fields. He works as a security guard in my building and he's also the one who referred her to me in the first place. He'll tell you that I'm speaking the truth." He emphasized again that he was not responsible for any of their deaths, then turned to join his lawyer, both of them eager to exit the precinct.

Jo crossed her arms and gave Mike an "Aha" look with a raised eyebrow. He crossed his arms and returned her gaze with a dark frown.

Chapter 4

Paul Fields silently studied his clasped hands as he sat in his small bungalow's sitting area while Henry and Lucas silently studied him. He suddenly looked up at them and said, "Forgot my manners. Can I get you gentlemen something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Milk?"

They responded over each other, Lucas in the affirmative, Henry begging off.

"Nothing for either of us, thank you." He eyed Lucas, who frowned a bit but leaned back into the plush cushions of the loveseat. Henry turned his attention back to Fields.

"Mr. Fields," he began, "are you in fact Ms. Fieldings' grandson?" He felt the direct approach was the best. No time for beating around the bush. Fields and the elderly woman were hiding something, he was sure of it. Their exact relationship was first and foremost in his mind.

Paul at first looked surprised by the to-the-point question, then his features calmed into what could be called relief. He tilted his head a bit and squinted his eyes at Henry for a few moments, then lowered his eyes and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"Hattie was my - "

"Paul, don't you tell those people anything about Hattie!" The elderly woman shouted with an unexpectedly strong voice as she shuffled as quickly as she could from the hallway into the sitting area. She looked disapprovingly at the two ME's and pointed a wrinkled finger at them.

"You two don't need to be asking any more questions about her!"

Paul rose from his chair and put his arms around her shoulders and brought her in close for a hug. He rested his chin on top of her head. "It's okay, Albertine, it's okay. She's gone. There's nothing anyone can do to hurt her now." He pulled away from her and gazed fondly into her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. He looked at Lucas and then Henry, his gaze lingering there, and said, "For some reason, I feel like we can trust them."

She shook her head and tears began to well up in her eyes. "We promised her," she said chokingly and sniffled.

"I know," he softly replied. "We made that promise while she lived. She's gone now." He glanced at Henry again. "It's okay to tell someone now." He kissed her on the top of her wavy white hair secured in a bun at the nape of her neck. She pulled away from his embrace and slowly shuffled back down the hallway, shaking her head and sniffling.

Paul, visibly shaken, sat back down in his chair. He took a couple of deep breaths and blinked back tears as he finished his earlier, interrupted response. "Hattie was my ... mother." He washed his hand over his face and cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "I am ... was ... her oldest child. I was born in 1928, about a year after she and my father were married." He struggled to continue. "Albertine," he said, motioning behind him toward the hallway, "is my baby sister." He looked at the two men to gauge their reactions and frowned a bit when it wasn't what he'd expected.

They were shocked - but not surprised. The similar circumstances surrounding Henry's peculiar condition allowed them an easier digestion of the astounding revelation. But the questions only multiplied in their minds.

"She's your baby sister?" Lucas asked, his astonishment level quite a bit higher than Henry's, despite knowledge of his condition. "Wait, 1928? So, you're (Paul nodded up and down) but your sister (Paul shook his head from side to side)." Lucas frowned and mouthed a silent O. "But how?"

Paul jumped up and paced the small area behind his chair. "Man, if I knew that, I'd be the richest man that ever lived!" He chuckled heartlessly and leaned against the back of his chair. "Who wouldn't wanna live forever, right?" He scoffed. "Yeah, people think they want to," he added softly.

"That's why you didn't come to either identify or claim her body," Henry surmised. "You thought that she would simply be reborn in the river and return to you, right?"

Paul ran his hand over his short, black, wavy locks. "Man, I don't know what I thought. Maybe, at first," he said, looking at Henry. "Then ... as time passed and the news still reported her and the other three as still being in the morgue ... " His voice trailed off. "I didn't know what to do."

He retook his seat and shook his head, frowning. "It's all my fault, anyway."

"Your fault?" Henry asked, confused.

"If I hadn't hooked her up with that - that - crook Wyndham!" He breathed heavily, shutting his eyes tight. He groaned but the breach had been made; he might as well spill all of the rest of his secrets.

"I referred her to 'Essence of Life', a program run by James Wyndham in the building where I'm employed as a security guard. Every day, people walked in and signed the register to visit his office. A lot of them came in looking sad, mad or tired of life, tired of living. Practically all of them left with a kick in their step, you know what I mean? They looked happier, healthier; read for the world," he scoffed.

"Hattie ... my mother ... was never happy about her life. She always said it was unnatural for anyone to have lived as long as she had but never age. You see, in 1934, a man she'd taken up company with for a while, didn't want their relationship to end, so he ... "

" ... killed her," Henry finished for him.

Paul's eyes were round with wonder. "Yeah," he nodded. "Shoved an ice pick into her heart while she slept. And us kids sleeping in the next room!" He breathed heavily again but managed to continue. "Idiot made so much noise climbing out of the window that it woke me up and I went into her bedrom to see what was going on." His face crumbled into sadness at the memory. "She just lay there, looked like she was asleep but she was swelling up. It scared me. I started shaking her, "Mama, Mama, wake up," but she didn't. Then, she just ... vanished."

"I ain't never told nobody this." He blinked at them with tired eyes, emotionally drained. He took another deep breath. "After she vanished, I just cried. Wound up outside on the porch, crying when she walked out of the woods dripping wet, a dirty old bedspread that someone had tossed out, draped around her body." He gave a heartfelt laugh this time. "I just ran to her and threw my arms around her. Didn't have sense enough to be afraid of her."

Lucas and Henry sat in awe of his tale. Reborn in water, Henry thought. He felt oddly validated by hearing that someone else had had the same death-life experience as he.

"What happened after that?" Lucas asked, enthralled.

He breathed in deeply and exhaled loudly. "We moved from Mississippi to this house." He looked around at the dwelling. "Been here since 1934. Neighborhood was a lot different then. We lived in the back rooms and Mama took care of the house for an elderly white couple. They grew to like her so much that they left her the house when they died in 1948."

Henry smiled at the memories Paul was sharing. Hattie's miraculous death and rebirth were one thing, though. He cleared his throat and asked, "How did you come to be ... like your mother?"

He scoffed. "Well," he breathed out, "One night in 1974, I tried to break up a fight between a David and a Goliath. Goliath was winning big time. Crowd of people standing around letting this little guy get pummeled by a big galoot, a bully. I knocked that big guy on his butt, helped the little guy up and we were walking away to get him some medical help when I felt this pain in between my shoulder blades. That yellow-bellied sucka had stabbed me in the back! Didn't even have the guts to face me like a man! And do you think anyone helped me?" He shook his head. "No. Everyone, including the little guy I'd just stood up for, scattered like rats from a sinking ship!" His eyes shifted side to side. "Next thing I knew I was treading water in the East River."

"Naked," Henry added, matter-of-factly.

Paul nodded, a slight smile on his lips. "As the day I was born," he laughed.

"Well, that should have made you a little happy that both you and your mother could have ... " Lucas' voice trailed off when he realized that Paul's mother was no longer there to share their everlasting lives together.

"Yeah, after a while, after all the confusion in my mind settled down a bit. Mama and I had an agreement. We would look out for each other. Always. Literally." He shook his head and motioned toward the hallway again. "See, Albertine's twin brother, Albert, died in 1978. As far as we know, neither of them were able to catch what I got from Mama. But I'll never leave my baby sister. Her husband died 15 years ago and they never had kids. I think she was afraid to," he softly added.

"You ... never married?" Henry asked.

"When I was very young, in my early 20's. That lasted about as long as the blink of an eye. And ever since ... ever since that night I died and came back to life, I just ... nah, marriage is out of the question." He eyed both of them. "What would it look like, my wife getting older, then looking older than me. Eventually." He sighed. "Wouldn't be fair to her."

Henry stiffened and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Lucas chanced a sympathetic glance at his boss.

"Uh, will you be coming down to claim her ... remains?" Lucas asked in an effort to steer the conversation away from anything that might place doubt in his boss' mind about ever getting closer to a certain hot detective.

"I don't know, Man, I, I guess so." He covered his eyes with his hand and sighed.

The doorbell rang and startled all three men. Paul rose from his chair and peered through the window, pulling the sheer, white curtains to the side a bit. "Hmphf, looks like cops," he muttered to himself. He moved away from the window and to the door. Just as he moved away from the window, Henry and Lucas saw Jo and Mike on the doorstep.

The two ME's shared a look of apprehension as Paul opened the door and Jo's voice lilted in, identifying Mike and her and requesting to speak to him about his cousin, Hattie Fieldings.

Paul gave a little grunt and allowed them inside. He motioned to the small sitting area and said, "Kind of a full house in here, Detectives." He motioned behind him to a larger room. "Why don't we move this party to the living room?"

Jo and Mike did a double take when they realized that Lucas and Henry were seated in the small sitting area. The four locked eyes with each other but the two ME's broke the gaze first, sheepishly lowering their eyes.

Henry could still feel Jo's piercing gaze. He swallowed and timidly raised his eyes to meet hers again. "Ah ... I can explain," he smiled weakly.

vvvv

The crime-solving foursome thanked Paul Fields for his cooperation and left the house. Any ruffled feathers Jo or Mike may have had regarding Henry's and Lucas' unexpected presence at Fields' residence had been eventually smoothed over once he'd shared more information with the detectives about his involvement with Essence of Life. It further helped when both ME's shared with them what Fields had told them about his startling family history.

Jo paused in front of her car and turned to Henry, her shoulders still a bit hunched. "Really, Henry? Dragging poor Lucas out here with you, though?"

Henry frowned a bit and replied, "As a Medical Examiner, I'm sure you are aware that I have every right to conduct interviews with surviving family members in order to piece together true events that may have led up to the victim's demise. And I take exception to your referring to me as 'dragging' Lucas down here with me. He is my assistant, after all," he pointed out.

"Henry, you are not a detective. Lucas worships the ground you walk on, of course, he's not going to refuse to wade into uncharted waters with you. He doesn't know any better. You do!" she pointed a finger at him.

"I beg to differ on that count, as well. A pathologist is a detective in the sense that all possibilities regarding someone's death must be explored, especially - "

"No. No," she shook her head vigorously.

"- ESPECIALLY," he raised his voice over hers, "in the absence of any reason for a cause of death," he finished.

"Your office coordinates with the NYPD, it doesn't take the lead in any investigation," she explained. "If you have a lead, you must inform us, keep us in the loop. You shouldn't be prancing off - "

"Prancing? Detective, really."

" - by yourself. What if Fields had been a violent sort? Neither of you are licensed to carry guns in your line of duty. What about that, huh?" She stepped closer to him, placing her hands on her hips.

"Awww, no, no, no. You two having a lover's spat? And when you haven't even started dating each other yet?" Lucas groaned, spreading his arms out.

"Lucas!" they both loudly admonished him and then turned back to each other.

"Okay, okay," he replied, backing away and putting both hands up as if to shield himself.

Henry pursed his lips and studied Jo. She raised an eyebrow and stared back defiantly at him. He sighed and relented.

"Lucas and I will return to the morgue. You and Mike ... continue your investigation without our interference."

She tilted her head a little and blinked her eyes expectantly at him, her eyebrow still raised.

"And ... any clues or leads will be shared with the NYPD forthwith."

"Forthwith," Mike muttered and shook his head.

"It means - " Lucas whispered to him.

"I know what it means," he rasped back. He threw up his hands and announced loudly for Jo's benefit that he was getting into the car. He climbed into the passenger side and closed the door loudly, still eyeing the verbal combatants through the windshield.

Jo sighed and relaxed the tenseness in her shoulders. "No, Henry, I'd like you to accompany us to question David Gregson's widow, Janet." Fields had shared that bit of information with them which confirmed a marriage record they'd found for the couple, dated 1988, when Janet had been 33 and David, an ageless 41.

Her request surprised him, even though he had accompanied her or both detectives numerous times to question suspects or those who could possibly shed light on their various mysteries.

"Alright. I'll be happy to," he smiled. He smiled broader when she smiled back. He walked over to her car and climbed into the back seat while instructing Lucas to return to the morgue to prep Hattie Fieldings' body for tomorrow's visit from Paul Fields.

"Will do, boss. And ... " he grinned toothily and gave Henry a thumbs up.

Oh, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, he lamented to himself.

During the ride over to Janet Gregson's Jackson Heights townhouse, he watched Jo's hands grip the steering wheel and imagined them wrinkled with age spots. He watched her lustrous head of hair bounce over her shoulders as she turned her head to view traffic through the windshield or the side or rearview mirrors. He imagined how her lovely mane would look greyed and thinned out. He swallowed and fought to keep the bile down that threatened to spill up and out of his mouth.

Why, all of a sudden were these old doubts and fears about a permanent relationship with Jo (or any woman, for that matter) rearing their ugly heads? They'd talked it all out and all his fears had been allayed when he'd proposed to her on Valentine's Day and she had joyfully, tearfully accepted. Indeed, there had been enough joy and tears to go around for both him and Abraham. No. He was not going to let those old fears ruin their future happiness. If Paul Fields decided to live a long, lonely, single existence, that was his choice. He breathed in deeply to calm his fears and felt them fall by the wayside as he recalled the moment that he'd proposed on one knee and Jo had accepted. He clung to that. They loved each other deeply and he clung on hard in the face of what was turning out to be one of the more difficult cases they'd had in a long time.


	2. Essence of Forever Ch 5

Detectives Martinez and Hanson sat in the living room of Janet Gregson's townhouse decorated mostly in mid-century modern decor. They questioned her about her late husband, David, while Henry walked slowly around the room studying what he recognized to be a few antique vases, paintings and furniture pieces. Of particular interest to him were the family photos on the mantel above the fireplace. It didn't surprise him that Gregson was only in a few photos from what appeared to be the early years of their marriage where the age difference between his wife and him was not that evident. He turned his attention back to the widow, Janet, as she haltingly answered the detectives' questions.

"He was an adventurer," she told them as she crushed a tear-soaked tissue in her hand. "He used to say that life was for exploring, new adventures and learning new things." She discarded the used tissue into the ornate, gold-plated wastebasket near her chair and snatched a clean one from the box inside a matching ornate covering on her lap.

"Early in our marriage, we went everywhere together exploring, he called it. Mountain climbing, river rafting, sky diving." She looked down at her hands and sighed. "After a while ... it became harder and harder to keep up with him until ... until I couldn't keep up with him at all." A weak smile played on her lips and she scoffed. "He was still physically able to leave at the drop of a hat and tirelessly roam the world looking for new adventures, visiting exotic places, meeting all sorts of interesting people ... " her voice trailed off and a new round of tears threatened to spill from her tired, blue eyes. Her breath shuddered in and out as she made a visible effort to maintain her composure. Her graying blonde hair was pulled softly back from her face into an intricately braided bun secured with a stylish, gold clip.

"He never forgot about me, though." She smiled more convincingly and dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. "Every few months I'd get a postcard from wherever he happened to be. Wish you were here." Her laugh sounded hollow. "Then ... it was only a couple of times a year: Christmas and my birthday." She swallowed and dabbed at her eyes again with the tissue. "For the past 11 years, I had received nothing." She stood and walked over to a small, brown, wooden box on the mantel. She opened it, retrieved something from it and closed it back up. When she turned back around, she had a small envelope in her hand.

"Two months ago, this letter arrived from him. It is the last thing I ever received from him." She walked over and handed it to Jo and retook her seat. When Jo hesitated to open it, Janet closed her eyes and nodded for her to do so.

"He wrote that he believed he had found a way for us to be together again," she said as Jo opened the envelope and unfolded the handwritten letter written on thick, embossed, pale blue stationery. "Some kind of motivational speaker, a guru, who could help bring him inner peace so that he didn't have to seek thrills outside of our marriage." She hugged herself as if warding off a cold chill. "It sounded as though he had decided to ... come back to me so that we could resume our marriage in a proper fashion." She paused a moment, thinking. "Instead, he, he's," she began to laugh, almost hysterically. "He's dead!" She continued to laugh as more tears flowed and buried themselves inside the layered wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes and the deep laugh lines on either side of her thin, pale lips.

The three crime solvers eyed her uncomfortably, unsure of how to proceed or if they even should, given her present emotional state. But these four deaths may or may not have been crimes so they resolved to press forward with their questions.

Jo bit her lower lip and the lines between her brows emerged as she skimmed over the letter. She passed it to Mike, who read it while Henry peered at it over his shoulder. There was no mention of the guru that her husband, David, claimed to have found, but the words Essence of Forever jumped off the last page for Henry. He frowned as he couldn't help but compare some elements of Janet's and David's encumbered relationship to that of his and Abigail's.

The similarities of their early years of apparent happiness; their eventual separation, although David had been the one to abandon the household for parts unknown, whereas Abigail had been the one to abandon him. And years later, a letter from the absent partner full of hope and an eagerness to mend the broken marriage. He swallowed and looked away from the letter in an effort to calm himself. The fact that David's letter had reached Janet while Abigail's had never even been mailed to him, did not change the reality of their unexpected deaths, thus ending any chance for a reconciliation. And Abigail had often styled her own blonde locks in a similar fashion as Janet's. Mike's voice broke into his thoughts.

"May we keep this for a while?" he asked, folding the letter. "It could help in our investigation." Janet nodded, seemingly calmer, and Mike handed it back to Jo, who placed it back into the envelope and into her jacket pocket.

Henry inhaled slightly and licked his lips. "Might I ask ... if you don't mind. The, uh, scar on the back of his neck ... did he ever tell you how he came to suffer it?"

Janet froze and returned a silent, stony stare to him. After several moments, she replied, "During the war." She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, closing her eyes.

Jo looked from Mike and Henry back to her. "Um, which - ?"

"The Korean War," she quietly replied. "It was November 1950. He'd joined the Army in 1929, and by 1950, was with the U.S. 8th Cavalry Regiment. The enemy had attacked them from three directions and overran them in the Battle of Unsan. They were forced to retreat back to the Ch'ongch'on River. It was during this battle that a Chinese soldier ... killed him," she said matter-of-factly. "Bashed him in the back of his neck with his rifle butt and ... he died. He said he came back to life in that same river. Naked." A smile, more of a smirk, played across her lips. "There was so much going on, he told me, that no one ever noticed."

"You've all been polite enough not to have mentioned what appears to be a substantial age difference between David and me; also evident in our photographs," she said, looking at Henry. "But he was the December and I was the May in our relationship." She sniffled a bit into the tissue and rose from her chair. She walked over to the photos on the mantel and smiled fondly at one of David and her laughingly sharing an embrace on a sunny beach somewhere. Happier times, she thought to herself. She plucked the photo from its perch and walked over and handed it to Henry.

"That was taken on our honeymoon in Hawaii, in 1988. I was 33, he," she laughingly paused, "was 41." Her eyes glazed over as the memory of that happy time caused her to smile broadly. Her smile quickly faded as she snapped out of the memory. "It was 15 years later when he couldn't hide it anymore and he finally confessed to me that he hadn't aged past 41 since 1950!" She clasped her hands together and paced back and forth in front of them.

"Of course, I didn't believe him and it caused considerable discord in our marriage. But ... as the years passed, I saw with my own eyes that time literally stood still for him, as far as aging. Time marched on for me, though," she scoffed. "One day he failed to come home the day after our anniversary. A few years later, he stopped communicating with me. That letter was the first communication from him in 11 years." She hugged herself again from the chilly wind only she felt. "David said that he was born in 1909, in Minnesota. His parents were Eric and Katarina. Of course, I never met them because they'd both been dead for years." Her laughter filled the room again and she raised her head toward the ceiling. She hugged herself again and turned to face them all. "Please find out what this so-called Essence of Forever is and if that's what took my David from me. I don't care that you don't believe me. What I've shared with you is the truth. Just find out, if you can, who or what was responsible for his ... his death."

vvvv

"Well, two down, two to go," Mike said as they piled into the car and buckled themselves in.

"And I guess that the Essence of Life therapy was for his regular customers and Essence of Forever was reserved for his more special clientele." She glanced back at Henry as she started up the car. He gave her a reassuring smile that he was not offended by her statement.

Mike looked over at Jo with a mischevious grin and loudly directed his question to Henry in the backseat. "When had you, uh, planned to visit The Frenchman, Doc, to see if she can identify what type of weapon made that wound on Tong?" He covered his grin with his hand.

"I have an appointment with her this evening at 6:30. Care to join me, Detective?" He smiled smugly at the back of Mike's head, knowing full well what his reply would be.

Mike coughed. "No." He coughed again a couple of times and frowned at Jo, who smilingly rolled her eyes and shook her head. "No. No, thanks." He made several attempts to clear his throat and finally took in a few deep breaths. "That cougar chick is too weird for me," he muttered.

Jo's eyes met Henry's in the rearview mirror and they both chuckled at Mike's fear of The Frenchman.

"It's not funny," he told them. "The last time I was there, she promised to demonstrate the 'cuts of pleasure' on me next time I visited her shop." He shuddered at the memory. "She's dangerous! And horny! Dangerous and horny!"

Henry managed to quieten his laughter. "I shall take all precautions, Detective." His burner phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out and viewed the screen to see who was calling him. L WAHL OCME displayed on the Caller ID.

"Yes, Lucas?"

("Uh ... hi ... uh ... something strange is happening here to one of the four certain corpses," he whispered covertly as if speaking in code. "I think you should see this for yourself.")

"Lucas, what are you talking about? What's happening to it?"

("Hattie Fieldings' corpse. It's not, uh, decomposing ... like it should.")

Henry sat up a little straighter, frowning. "Not ... well, it's only been a couple of days, Lucas."

(Lucas took in a deep breath and replied, "Her autopsy scars are ... gone.")

vvvv

Henry rushed back into the morgue to find Lucas standing over Hattie's corpse as it lay on the autopsy table. He quickly pulled on a pair of gloves and took up position next to Lucas while Jo and Mike stood on the other side of the table. A white sheet covered her up to her neck. Henry carefully lifted the sheet and pulled it down to expose her upper torso. He gasped along with the two detectives when they saw that the long, Y-shaped autopsy scar along with its many stitches had completely vanished from her body. Only the strange ice pick scar over her heart remained.

"I have to tell you, this totally freaks me out," Lucas said, shaking his head. He looked apologetically at Henry, then Jo, and clamped his lips tightly together, lowering his eyes to Hattie's torso again.

"Henry," Jo asked, visibly shaken. "What's going on?"

"We're going to do everything in our power to find out, Detective," he replied, his eyes poring over Hattie's body now devoid of any autopsy scars that he, himself had made only yesterday. He looked at Mike and Jo and promised, "As soon as we know anything, we'll let you know." They both nodded at him and turned to walk out of the morgue.

"Oh, Detectives," he called after them, "since it appears that I will not be able to keep my 6:30 appointment with The Frenchman this evening, perhaps the two of you could go in my stead?"

Mike shook his head vigorously, a look of horror on his face. But much to his dismay, Jo bit her lower lip, then replied, "Sure, Henry. We'll take care of it." She looked at Mike, who appeared as though he would start hyperventilating. He was still shaking his head "No", but Jo grabbed him by his arm and steered him out of the morgue.

"Yes. Yes, we will." She punched the UP elevator button for the lobby and leaned in close to Mike. "I will not let her harm you, Mike. I'll shoot her if she tries anything." The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside.

"Promise?" Mike asked her, a pained expression still on his face.

She shook her head as the doors closed and chuckled a bit. "Promise."

"Now, Lucas," Henry began, "we need to examine the other three corpses." If the same were happening to the other three, it could change the circumstances of the case very quickly, he realized.

Notes:

Information on the U.S. Army 8th Cavalry obtained fro a


	3. Essence of Forever Ch 6

Jo and Mike arrived at The Frenchman's shop at 7th and Reid Streets. She turned off the car and unbuckled her seatbelt. When Mike didn't move, she looked over at him.

"Come on, Mike." She unbuckled his seatbelt for him and it began to retract and slide across his chest. He frowned down at it and sighed, one of his hands helping it along.

"Okay. I'm coming," he muttered and bounced out of the car. He shook himself a little and rolled his head around, stretching his neck.

"Ready?" Jo smirked, doing her best to hide her smile.

"Sure." He walked confidently beside her as they made it up the steps and into the shop. As soon as they entered, the infamous owner was spotted behind the small counter, carefully wiping a short, curved blade with a jewel-encrusted handle and eyeing it with great admiration. Mike's breath caught in his throat and he stopped dead in his tracks. "Aw, geez."

Jo smiled, shook her head and grabbed his arm, steering him closer to the counter. "She's harmless, Mike, just likes making people feel uncomfortable," she whispered.

"You mean making men feel uncomfortable," he whispered back, his wide eyes trained on the weapon The Frenchman fondled and (to him, at least) her sinister, red-lipsticked smile.

"Hello, again, Detectives," she cooed as they approached the counter, her eyes never leaving the gleaming weapon in her hands. She finally placed it back into a satin-lined, black, leather case and looked smilingly up at Mike. "How may I help you today?" She lowered her eyes and arched an eyebrow as she ran a finger across the smooth leather case. "Something in the line of small, personal weapons for boudoir use only?"

Mike coughed and lowered his head. Jo stifled her laughter and cleared her throat.

"No. We understand that Dr. Morgan had an appointment with you this evening. He's sorry that he couldn't make it, so we came in his place." She fished her cell phone from her pocket and clicked on it and swiped a few times over the screen. She turned the phone's screen so that the eccentric shop owner could see a photo of Ming Tong's corpse, the wound on his lower torso clearly visible. "He wanted to know if you could identify the weapon that may have made this type of wound on this man. By the way, what is your name, actually?"

"Joyce. Joyce Wilson. I was adopted by American missionaries and brought here when I was six years old," she replied robotically. Her mischevious smile had vanished as soon as she saw Tong's image on the phone and she snatched it from Jo's hand. She frowned slightly as she studied the image closer and began to shake her head a bit from side to side. "What is this? Some kind of a joke?" She thrust the phone back into Jo's hand.

Confused, both detectives looked at each other then back at her. "No," Jo replied, "this is an active investigation into the possible murder of this man, Ming Tong, and three other individuals who died in a similar fashion, on the same day, in the same general area."

"Ming Tong," she muttered, covering her mouth with both hands. She lowered her hands and stood straighter, glaring at them. "You're saying that this man is in Dr. Morgan's morgue right now?"

"Well, it's not his morgue, but, yes, in the City morgue," Jo replied.

"Oh, we all know that Dr. Morgan is the only pathologist there worth his salt. I follow the news. His morgue!" she emphatically declared. Closing her eyes and shaking her head, she murmured, "Impossible." She then plopped down on the small stool behind the counter. Before either of them could say anything more, she suddenly stood up and walked quickly over to a tall, burly man in a leather jacket and jeans, his long, brown hair pulled back into a severe ponytail.

"Steve, take over." She pointed toward the counter and he nodded and quickly went over and positioned himself behind it. She motioned for the two detectives to follow her.

"Let's talk in my office."

They followed her into a small office to the left of the hallway near the front entrance in the living quarters. She closed the door and turned to them with a grim look on her face; her usual cool, flirtatious and borderline sinister manner had melted away. She walked over to a tall bookshelf on the opposite side of the room and chose a thick tome with a battered cover. She huffed as she rested it heavily upside down onto the top of her desk and began to rifle through the pages.

"Here," she said, pointing to an image of a long, curved sword and its scabbard. Your victim was most likely killed with this type of sword. It's called a kyū guntō, old military sword, used by the Japanese military prior to the Second World War. A Japanese general named Murata Tsuneyoshi, born in the late 1830's, previously made guns. He later started making what was probably the first mass-produced substitute for traditionally made samurai swords. The swords were referred to as "Murata-to" and they were used in the First Sino-Japanese war 1894-1895."

The two sleuths studied the sword and read the brief description underneath it of its parts and dimensions, but The Frenchman, Joyce Wilson, was lecturing them in a style that would probably get Henry's stamp of approval as she provided them with more information than they cared to digest.

"The scarring is consistent with a downward slash administered from behind him, which indicates that his attacker was on a higher level than he. A ledge or horse, perhaps?" She shrugged and slowly sat down in the small office chair behind the desk.

Mike stood up from his bent over position and said, "So, he may not even have seen his attacker." It pleased him that he felt less threatened by the unpredictable antiques dealer now that she was behaving in a more civilized manner. Jo snapped a photo of the page displaying the sword with her phone and emailed it to Henry in the OCME.

The Frenchman, self-identified as Joyce Wilson, seemed to become lost in a memory but continued to share information with them. "Your victim, Ming, started visiting the shop about five years ago. He would walk around and gaze at every bladed weapon, not saying a word, not asking for help and never buying anything. At first, it frustrated me that he made his silent rounds and never bought anything. One Saturday, he came in just as I'd had a new sword like that one," she pointed to the image in the book, "put on display. His eyes lit up when he saw it. For the first time, I heard his voice, soft, yet firm. He didn't even ask the price, just looked at me and asked what manner of payment did I accept." She laughed a bit at the memory, recalling her skepticism that he could afford it. "But he paid it," she said, turning to look at them with a smile. "A cool $50,000 dollars cash. He didn't bat an eye handing it over to me no less than one hour later that same day."

Jo and Mike looked at each other and seemed to agree that they'd gotten all they needed for now. "Well, thank you, Ms. Wilson, for taking time out of your busy day to help us."

"There's something else you should know about Ming, but it has nothing to do with your investigation. At least, I don't think it does."

"Okay," Mike said, "we'd like to hear it." He surprised himself when he smiled at her.

"When he bought the sword for $50,000, I was in trouble with my mortgage on this place for nearly that much; $48,000. I thought that I could rescue my mortgage and have a couple thousand left for a bit of breathing room. When I went down to the bank that Monday morning to take care of it, I was told that my mortgage had already been caught up." Her eyes glistened with tears as she smiled at them. "I know it was Ming by the description the bank employees gave me. I suppose they assumed he was a relative of mine or something. I was able to track his address down, but he was never home when I visited and never answered the phone number associated with that address. So, I gave up. What a wonderful thing for someone to have done for a perfect stranger," she sniffed and wiped sad-happy tears from her cheeks. "Find his killers, Detectives. He didn't deserve this."

"Wow," Jo said as they walked out of the shop and down the stairs. "Pretty generous thing to do, paying off a stranger's mortgage."

"Yeah," Mike replied. "Wonder if that was a one-time thing or not?"

"We need to take another look at his finances," she said.

"What say we split up?" Mike suggested. "You comb through his finances, I'll pay a visit to his last known place of residence (the same address The Frenchman/Joyce Wilson shared with them). See what's shakin' there."

Jo nodded and they got in the car and headed back to the precinct. Once there, they both exited the vehicle. Mike drove off in his own car and she entered the building. Before going back up to the bullpen, she decided to visit the morgue first to find out what Henry and Lucas had come up with if anything.

vvvv

"Hey, Henry. Lucas," Jo greeted them. "Anything new?" Lucas waved to her with a couple of fingers while his thumb and index finger held onto his coffee stirrer in his coffee cup.

"Ah, Detective, do come closer," Henry beckoned to her. "As far as anything new, yes. Unfortunately, as far as any new answers, no." His brow furrowed and he clamped his lips together, staring intently at Hattie's corpse on the autopsy table.

"Lucas and I re-examined the other three cadavers and, like Ms. Fieldings, their autopsy scars have also vanished. Not only that, but both x-ray and ultrasound show that all of their organs are intact. It's as if we had never removed them."

"Henry, how is that even possible?" she asked, alarmed.

"Well, as I said before, Detective, new developments but no answers." He continued to gaze intently at Hattie's corpse, leaning on his arms as his hands gripped the edge of the table.

"You see," he looked up at her, "they don't appear to be decomposing, as Lucas pointed out earlier. If anything ... they're healing." He pursed his lips and raised both eyebrows, bugging his eyes at Jo.

"What do you mean, they're not decomposing?"

"Human decomposition begins around four minutes after a person dies and follows four stages: autolysis, bloat, active decay, and skeletonization."

She braced herself for the coming lecture, but at least he was cute whenever he did, she mused.

"Autolysis, the first stage of human decomposition, is also called self-digestion and begins immediately after death. As soon as the body's blood circulation and respiration stop, it has no way of getting oxygen or removing waste products. The excess carbon dioxide causes an acidic environment which causes membranes in cells to rupture and the membranes to release enzymes that begin eating the cells from the inside out." He excitedly continued sharing his knowledge, unaware of or ignoring the look of disgust on her face.

"Rigor mortis, which causes muscles to stiffen, never took place. Small blisters filled with nutrient-rich fluid begin appearing on internal organs and the skin's surface. The body will appear to have a sheen due to ruptured blisters, and the skin's top layer will begin to loosen."

She put up a hand and swallowed, squinching her eyes closed. "Okay. Got it. No decomposing for them. Henry, people either die or they don't ... I mean ... " A sigh of frustration escaped her and her arms flopped up then down. "Are they really ... dead? Or are they all trapped in some sort of ... ?"

"Limbo! They're in limbo!" Lucas shouted and pointed his coffee stirrer at her, dripping coffee on the sheet covering Hattie's body. "Oh, sorry, sorry." He fumbled to get rid of his coffee cup then used a sanitary wipe to rub vigorously at the small droplet stains. He looked sheepishly at Henry and flustered out an apology and that he would change the sheet.

"Jo. Lucas. You're geniuses!" Henry breathed out, his eyes large and round, his wide mouth jerkily forming a broad grin. "Jo, I need you to contact James Wyndham immediately. His services are required." The words rushed out of him, his face flushed with excitement.

"Henry, what - ?" Confusion was written all over her face.

"Please, Jo, just get him down here as soon as you can," he begged her with those puppy dog eyes of his. "I don't know how much time we have left or even if it will work, but we have to try!"

She shrugged and nodded. "I'll ... see what I can do."

He swooped away from her and turned his broad smile on Lucas. As she walked out of the morgue, putting her phone to her ear, she heard Henry bark out a reminder.

"Oh, and be sure he brings any tapes or trinkets or whatever it is he uses during his regression therapy."

She stopped and twisted around to look at him, more confused than ever. "Just WHO is he supposed to be hypno-regressing?"

He frowned at her, thinking the answer was obvious. "Why, our four special guests." Her jaw dropped as he turned once again and marched quickly past Lucas and toward the freezer, beckoning him to follow. "Come on, Lucas. We've got work to do."

vvvv

There was no answer when Mike knocked on the door of Ming Tong's Bedstuy Brownstone apartment on Jefferson Ave in Brooklyn. He'd identified himself to the superintendent and requested entry to the apartment. He waited patiently while the superintendent's teenage son tried key after key before finally finding the right key and opening the door. The young man murmured an apology and stepped aside to let Mike enter. When he started to follow Mike inside, he held up a hand and gave him a stern look.

"Thanks. I'll take it from here." The young man solemnly nodded fingered the ring of keys but remained in the hallway just outside the door.

Mike stepped into the almost sterile, sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment. Not much in the living room, he noted, no dining or kitchen table, no TV. The room felt eerily unused despite rental records showing Tong had first moved in six years ago. According to the superintendent, the full monthly rent had always shown up on time as a transfer into the property management's bank account. Tong, on the other hand, was rarely seen or heard in the tiny dwelling. Nothing in the cupboards, no food, no dishes, no pots and pans. How'd the guy feed himself? He opened the fridge and found half-eaten takeout from a nearby Vietnamese restaurant, three canned energy drinks and half a carton of eggs. He closed the fridge's door and shook his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the superintendent's young son still standing in the hallway looking forlorn. As he moved toward the bedroom, the young man leaned in and spoke loudly.

"Too bad what happened to him. He basically kept to himself but he was a really cool guy."

Surprised, Mike stopped and eyed the young man up and down. "You and he were friends?"

"Guess you could say that, yeah," he nodded with a weak smile. "He ... he always listened to me." He looked up at Mike. "Most people don't want to listen, you know? They're too busy or too caught up in their own problems." He lowered his sorrowful brown eyes and smiled. "Ming always listened and gave me good advice. Helped me with my homework, too." He looked up at Mike again and shook his head. "Guy was super smart, knew so much about history like, like he had actually lived through it, you know? He showed me his collection, too. Really cool."

"Collection?" Mike asked.

The 17-year-old leaned in and indicated by pointing, "In the bedroom. I can show you," he added hopefully. Mike relented and motioned for him to join him and he eagerly moved toward the bedroom.

"What's your name, kid?" Mike asked.

"Jeremy," he replied and opened the bedroom door as if opening the portal to another universe. He stepped in ahead of Mike and proudly announced, "What'd I tell ya?" He looked around the room smiling broadly. "Cool, huh?"

On the walls were mounted different sized swords, knives, and hatchets from different eras. Had he owned or used all these weapons? In the closet were what looked to be an average wardrobe of contemporary clothing and several more dated outfits. It reminded him of Henry's closet with clothing he'd retained from some of the different time periods he'd lived through. Also, as in Henry's closet, there were a few military uniforms from different conflicts. Which ones, he wasn't sure, but one looked like an Army uniform worn by soldiers in The Great War (WWI). Another was from the Second World War (WW2). He suddenly remembered to whip out his phone and record a video of the room and the contents of the closet. He pulled the dated outfits and uniforms out so that he could get as complete an image of them as possible in the video.

He squatted down and lifted the lid off of two large metal boxes and recorded their contents. Letters in Chinese, some in English and other languages. Photos. Some faded black and whites and what he knew was a daguerreotype of Tong. Maybe the other people in the photos were long-deceased family members? He suddenly felt a pang of guilt like he was an intruder on what apparently was this guy's long, secretive life; a life filled with memories and experiences he could only imagine. And also one of inevitable loss. How many friends and loved ones lost? Again, he could only imagine. He knew only part of Henry's long story and realized that Tong may have been around even longer than Henry and he didn't envy either one of them. As far as he knew, he was a regular guy with a regular life who would one day, blessedly, meet his maker. Not hang around century after century watching everyone else go off to another existence.

He replaced the lids on the boxes and moved out of the closet back into the bedroom. After completing another recording of the room with his phone, he clicked End, then emailed it to Jo. He then texted her that he was on his way back to the precinct. He could see little wavy dots next to her icon and he knew she was texting him back so he waited. Meet me at Wyndham's. OCME requests his services. Surprised, he texted her back that he was on his way to Wyndham's.

"Thanks, kid, uh, Jeremy." He closed up his phone and motioned for the boy to exit the apartment ahead of him.

Jeremy locked up the apartment and caught up with Mike as he walked down the two flights of stairs. "What's gonna happen to all his stuff? My dad keeps asking when he can clear out the apartment for another renter but all he gets from you guys is 'We'll let you know'."

They reached the ground floor and Mike replied, "Sorry, kid. Once the investigation is completed, your Dad can do whatever he wants with Tong's stuff. That is if no next of kin is found for him." He thanked him again for his help and quickly left to go join Jo at Wyndham's.


	4. Essence of Forever Ch 7

"What's that?" Lucas asked.

"Oh, um, a fax from Abraham," Henry replied. He silently studied the information Abe had found on online genealogy websites about their fourth cadaver, Margaret Greene. "It appears that she was born Margaret Green, no 'e' on the end, in 1885, Greensburg, Kansas; the second of seven children. The city was named for D. R. "Cannonball" Green. Hmmm."

"Her father?" Lucas queried.

"Not according to the 1885 Kansas State Census, but most likely a relative," Henry replied. "This D. R. Green owned a stagecoach company and helped to form the city." He raised his eyebrows and clamped his lips together, looking at Margaret's body as it lay under a white sheet on the stainless steel autopsy table. "Well, Ms. Green, with or without the 'e' at the end, it appears that you may have had a very interesting and prosperous early life, at least." He briefly recalled the privileged upbringing of his own early life in a stately London manor and holidays spent on a sumptuous country estate. Even so, none of his family members had had towns or cities named after them. His curiosity piqued, he continued reading about her life, condensed into a fax document a page and a half long.

"She was a nurse during The Great War (WWI)," he continued.

"Overseas? Maybe that's how she died," Lucas speculated. Then he frowned, recalling that of the four, she was the only one with no scar at all, adding to the mystery of her probable first COD. "No, guess not." He looked at Henry, who stood across from him on the other side of the table. "Formed any theories yet as to what may have caused her first death?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Of course, I can't be certain, but ... given the fact that she was a nurse at Camp Funston in Kansas - " he began before being interrupted by Lucas.

" - and had cared for soldiers stricken with the strain of flu that had caused so many deaths in 1918 - " Lucas interjected.

" - that's probably what led to her first demise," Henry finished. Henry beamed his best 'well done, Lucas' smile at him and dipped his head slightly.

"Okay," Lucas beamed back at him. "Awright. We're getting more in sync with each other with our thinking, huh?" He bobbed his head up and down, grinning and motioning his hands back and forth between them. "Helps that I'm starting to read more than just my graphic novels, too. But, ouch; she would have suffered a long time before she actually died."

"Yes," Henry replied soberly. Memories of that time of the pandemic flooded back to him and he wondered again how he'd managed to avoid catching it from his many flu-infected patients. "The viral infection itself was not more aggressive than any previous influenza, but the special circumstances of malnourishment, poor hygiene, overcrowded hospitals and medical camps, promoted bacterial superinfection that killed most of the victims typically after a somewhat prolonged deathbed." He focused again on Lucas. "Yes, she would have died and no scar would have remained."

It was late, nearly 9:00 PM. An hour and a half earlier, he and Lucas had enjoyed a delicious sandwich meal from Katz's, thanks to Abe having placed a delivery order for them. He studied the clock on the wall and wondered how much longer it would take for Jo and Mike to bring Wyndham to the morgue. The sound of the elevator ding and the doors opening made him realize just how impatient he had been. He walked hurriedly toward the door of the morgue and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the three. As they drew closer, he suddenly had doubts. What if this didn't work? What if he was wrong? What if Wyndham's involvement pushed them all to suffer a permanent death? Whatever the outcome, there was no turning back now.

"Okay, Doc," Mike announced, "this is James Wyndham, the, uh, hypnotherapist life regressor." He shrugged, not really knowing what the man's proper title was and not really caring.

Wyndham slowly turned an indignant eye to him and snarked, "Close enough, Detective." He then turned back to face Henry, extended his hand and Henry graciously shook it. "I take it you're Dr. Morgan."

Henry nodded. "Dr. Wyndham. It is Doctor, right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm a doctor," Wyndham exhaled, slightly annoyed. "I have Ph.D.'s in both Psychology and Biology." He appeared uncomfortable and rubbed the back of his neck. "Never been in a morgue before," he chuckled nervously. "So you want me to demonstrate my services. The Detectives here told me that it might help absolve me of any wrongdoing once you guys see for yourself how harmless my techniques are. So where's the subject?"

Henry frowned slightly at Jo and Mike. "You didn't explain to him?"

"We ... thought you could explain your theory better to him," Jo replied, shrugging slightly.

"Right," he mock-glared at her. "Well. Dr. Wyndham, it is my belief that these four individuals are not actually dead but have reached an impasse, as it were." He paused to collect his thoughts and gather the right words. He went into further detail for the next few minutes and sincerely hoped the hypnotherapist would not turn and run.

Wyndham blinked at him and huffed, "That's quite an outlandish theory, Dr. Morgan." Henry shared a look of dismay with the others and closed his eyes in frustrated exhaustion.

"Okay. Let's do it!" Wyndham loudly agreed. Henry's eyes popped open and his dazzling smile flashed across his face for a millisecond. When Wyndham informed them that he needed to be alone with the four, he was met with resistance. He explained further that he'd never had an audience when conducting his sessions. The two detectives and two ME's reluctantly proceeded to exit the morgue.

"Oh, and just in case one of you happens to be immortal, as well," he joked, "I would advise you to close your eyes and ears to whatever I say to them as I guide them back." They each forced a smile to cover their sudden concern for Henry. And who knows? Maybe for themselves.

They milled around in the hallway near the elevators, alternately pacing toward the break room at the opposite end and leaning back against the wall. After several minutes, Mike whispered something to Jo and she walked over to where Henry was leaning with his head back against the wall, eyes closed. He felt her approach him and he lowered his head, blinking his eyes open. They smiled softly at each other.

"Let's, um, get some coffee," she said quietly. He nodded and followed her into the break room. The lights were still on even as late as it was. They were the room's only occupants but the coffee maker contained a half pot of a freshly-brewed coffee. Henry, intent upon preparing their individual cups, automatically held out a chair for Jo to sit and she did. She'd realized very soon in their relationship that it was best to allow her self-reliance and independence to acquiesce occasionally to his gentlemanly ways, schooled to him centuries ago. He brought the two steaming styrofoam coffee cups to their table and set one down in front of her. He sat in the chair next to her and blew on his to cool it.

"We haven't had much downtime during this investigation," she said and blew on her coffee before taking a small sip.

"True," he agreed. He took a tentative sip to test the temperature, then another. He set his cup down and smiled at her.

"Miss you," she said and smiled back at him.

"Miss you more," he whispered, leaning over and kissing her softly on the cheek, then pressing the back of her hand to his lips.

"How have you been able to ... handle all this? I mean I saw your reaction when Janet Gregson was describing her marriage to David. Happy at first, then her loneliness during their years of separation. And when Mike shared what he'd learned about Ming Tong's almost hermit-like existence ... Paul Fields saying that his mother, Hattie, hated her immortality ..." Her hand squeezed his and she turned more in her chair to face him, not knowing what more to say at the moment but wanting to do so much to comfort him.

He smiled and placed his other hand on top of hers and squeezed it back. "It's been a lot to take in but I'm fine," he assured her.

"Really?" she asked, her brow wrinkled just slightly.

"Really," he nodded. "As a matter of fact, I had been more concerned about how you have been dealing with everything."

"Well, yeah," she smiled and nodded, "a lot to take in learning of these people's long stories." She looked up at him and added, "And surprise, surprise, this time not your long story."

He raised his eyebrows over his smile. "It's certainly been a revelation to find out that there are others out there like me besides Adam." He bugged his eyes and added, "Comforting to know, too, that they're not psychopaths like him."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Normal immortals." They exchanged a look and laughed at her remarkably incongruous statement. Their laughter died and they sipped their coffee again. Henry drew in a breath and looked past her to the doorway. She followed his gaze to see Mike standing there looking as if he'd just seen a ghost.

"He's finished," he said. He stepped aside as they hurried out of the break room and he fell in step with them. "You gotta see this."

"Are they alright?" Henry asked, picking up his pace, a look of excitement and apprehension on his face.

Mike shook his head and repeated, "You gotta see this."

As they neared the morgue's entry door, they saw Lucas standing in the hallway, his mouth agape as he gazed into the room. Henry stood in front of him and placed a hand on both of his shoulders.

"What's wrong, Lucas? What is it?" he demanded, concerned for his young assistant.

Lucas pointed into the morgue. "They ... they ... they ... " was all he managed to utter. Henry turned to see where Lucas was pointing and couldn't believe his eyes. He quickly burst into the morgue, Jo and Mike not far behind. Lucas remained standing in the hallway just outside the door, speechless.

Henry worked his way past an amazed Wyndham, who was leaning against one of the autopsy tables. The exact table that Margaret Greene's body had been lying on less than 15 minutes ago. The immortal ME's heart pounded in his ears as he slowly came to stand before a very much alive Margaret Greene, David Gregson, Hattie Fieldings and Ming Tong. The four, previously cadavers, were now miraculously returned to the world of the living, thanks to what James Wyndham referred to simply as his "techniques".

"Hello," Henry quietly greeted them, totally awestruck at the sight. "I'm Dr. Henry Morgan. How are you all feeling?"

They passed looks of embarrassment between each other and cocooned themselves tighter into their individual thin sheets. Margaret was first to speak.

"Like I've just woken up from a deep sleep," she sighed. "And cold," she added, looking down at the sheet she tightly clutched around her.

The ice broken, the other three introduced themselves in turn. They professed to harbor no resentment toward Wyndham and instead thanked him for having guided them back; and Henry for having commissioned him to do so.

"It was like I hit a brick wall," David said, "and couldn't find my way back. Back to ... " he scoffed and shook his head, ruffling his hand through his thick, brown hair.

"Back to ... living," Hattie finished for him. The other three nodded in agreement. She looked down at her sheet and readjusted it, then frowned. She opened it a little and studied her body, then closed the sheet around her in amazement. "It's gone," she whispered. Henry squinted at her, confused. "My scar where he stabbed me with that ice pick!" She opened her sheet just enough to expose now unmarked area over her heart that had carried the scar for over 80 years. Henry leaned forward and peered closer at the spot; then straightened back up, confounded. He turned his attention to David.

"Excuse me, if you would - " David was already turning around so Henry could examine the back of his neck. After a second or two, he turned back around to face Henry.

"Lemme guess. No scar."

Henry was beside himself, his eyes wide with wonder. "No scar," he managed to breathe out.

The mostly reticent Ming Tong frowned a bit and discreetly opened his sheet just a little to expose his lower torso that no longer held the long scar rendered by the sword of a Japanese warrior on horseback in 1894. His glistening eyes met Henry's and with a soft, firm voice said, "Can only mean one thing."

Henry nodded. "For your sakes, I certainly hope so."

"I have to let my family know," Hattie realized, her hand flying to her smiling lips.

"We need clothes," Ming pointed out.

Margaret vigorously nodded in agreement. "And shoes," she added.

"I gotta call my wife!" David happily blurted out. His stomach growled loudly. "And I'm hungry." He eyed everyone in the morgue disapprovingly as they laughed, happy to release their prior tension. "Well, I am!" he poutingly added.


	5. Essence of Forever Ch 8

"Ohhhh, what a day, what a day, what dayyyy," Jo groaned out and winced through closed eyes as she lay face down on the bed in Henry's room. She winced again as he expertly massaged her aching feet, ankles, and legs. "Ummm," she moaned into the crook of her arm, eyes still closed. "Were you ever a masseuse?" she managed to croak out.

Henry grinned and said, "No. I simply know anatomy and am familiar with all the various pressure points that bring relief and induce pleasure." He struggled to hide his smile as he continued to massage the balls of her feet and waited for her reaction.

Her smile broadened but her eyes remained shut. She loved the way his accent curled around his words when he teased her. "Are you trying to seduce me, Doctor?" her voice muffled a bit by her arm.

"Hmmm, I rather thought you knew that that was my clear intention, Detective." His deep, smooth voice tremored delightfully into her as he leaned against the side of her left thigh. He ran his strong, yet gentle fingers up from her right ankle to the back of her calf; alternately kneading and stroking the muscles of her leg. He repeated the motions downward, back to her ankle and positioned her left leg for the same treatment.

She felt as though she were melting under the heat of his hand wherever it touched her skin as it snaked its way up the length of her leg. He'd gently removed her shoes and pants for her earlier after she'd flopped face down onto his bed, exhausted. Oh, he definitely knew what he was doing! The throbbing pain in her feet and legs were gradually replaced by a soothing relief that both warmed and relaxed her. Another moan rumbled out of her as he kneaded the backs and sides of her thighs. Muscles she had never been aware of were untightening as the blood flow to them increased. When he placed one large hand on her backside, she readied herself to be taken to another level of massage pleasure, but his hand did not move. She raised her head up a bit and peeped over her arm to see him lying on his side facing her. He looked a bit pale but peaceful with his eyes shut and an almost imperceptible smile on his lips as if he were dreaming. Guilt suddenly washed over her for he must have been just as exhausted as she was from the extraordinary events of the past few days.

She turned onto her side to face him and, suddenly, so much love burst inside her for this mysterious man who had somehow managed to claim her heart. She reached over and gently stroked her fingers through his soft, wavy curls. His eyes were still shut but his slight smile became more noticeable and he pulled her closer. His hand still rested against her backside and his strong fingers squeezed into it. When she squealed a bit, he broke into a wide grin and chuckled before opening his eyes and reaching over to peck her quickly on the lips. She nestled closer to him and their lips found each other's again for a more mature version of a kiss that lasted quite a bit longer.

"I thought you'd dozed off," she chuckled. "Thanks for the massage, by the way, it - was - amazing," she breathed out.

"You're quite welcome, my dear," he softly replied. "But I'm sure that I may have derived more pleasure from it than you did," he added playfully. They both lay quiet for a few moments. She looked at him again to make sure he was still awake. The jovialness had left his countenance and his eyes roamed from side to side when he was in deep thought mode, she recognized.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, even though she had a pretty good idea of what it was.

He scoffed and closed his eyes. "Oh, just thinking what if?"

"Wyndham?" She bit her lower lip dreading his next response.

"Jo, what if ... what if he were to work his magic on me?" He turned his face to her and she could see the brewing excitement in his dark hazel eyes.

"Magic, Henry?" She pushed herself up to a sitting position and retrieved her pants from where they lay on the foot of the bed. She put them back on and sat back down on the bed cross-legged. "I wouldn't exactly call it magic, but it was still pretty remarkable what he did for them."

He sat up on the bed to face her, pulling his legs into a cross-legged position, as well. "Well, not magic, but, but, whatever his technique was, it certainly seemed to have done the trick for them. He brought them out of their hypnotic-induced comas or stupors and they can most likely age and live out their lives normally now. No longer will they suffer the fear of exposure and/or rejection. Or the unnerving humiliation of naked rebirth in water after a death." He smiled more brightly at her, energized at the prospect of regaining his mortal existence. "Don't you see, Jo? We can marry and spend our lives together as any other normal couple." He waited eagerly for her reply. When she dropped her gaze from him, he frowned. "What's wrong? Isn't that what you want?"

She looked back up at him. "Henry, I want what's best for us, yes, but also what's best for you."

He frowned at her, confused. "Jo, I don't - "

She raised a hand to interrupt him and state her case. "Let's say you do manage to lose your immortality." She paused and looked deep into his eyes. "What do you think will happen if or when Adam shakes loose from his locked-in condition?" He pulled back from her a bit still frowning. "As soon as he got a chance to, he might take out his revenge on you and kill you permanently."

He pursed his lips, his brow furrowed. "Well," he began, "we get Wyndham to use his technique to bring Adam back to his mortal state."

Jo shut her eyes and shook her head. "Henry, you're forgetting one thing: Adam can still kill you permanently if you're mortal, whether he's mortal or immortal." She searched his face to see that he was processing what she'd just pointed out to him. "Taking his immortality away from him may only make him more angry, more vengeful. He may not stop at just getting revenge against you."

A myriad of emotions flashed over his face as he slowly digested her words and reluctantly agreed with her reasoning. He first washed his hand over his face and then leaned forward to rest his forehead into it. Finally, he looked up at her and exhaled in a rush. "Of course, you're right." He lowered his eyes and swallowed. "It's just that ... it's like being that close," he said, positioning the tips of his index finger and thumb close together, "to a great treasure you've searched for, for nearly all your life and ... suddenly realizing that you can never take possession of it. Ever." He stared off into space and frowned. "You can never have it."

"Honey, I don't know if one day you will or will not become mortal again. You don't know that." He shot her a skeptical look. "No," she emphasized, "nobody knows what the future may hold. That's why we live one day at a time." She leaned forward a bit and looked deeper into his eyes. "That's how we're gonna live our lives. And you and I should get back to planning our wedding and our honeymoon."

"And what of Adam?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, he's not invited," she smirked and grinned as he threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Definitely not invited," she added.

Morning found them cuddled together on Henry's bed, still fully clothed under a comforter he recognized as being from the guest bedroom that Jo slept in whenever she stayed over. He realized with a smile and warm, fatherly pride that his son was responsible for "tucking them in" late last night. The irony was not lost on him; for how many times had he tucked his son in when he was growing up?

An 1890's era antique French gilded figural clock sat atop his bureau of drawers of dark, masculine wood. It softly chimed the 5:00 AM hour and he hoped that it had not woken Jo. He loved having her near like this, cradled in his arms. He decided to take her advice and gave not a thought to tomorrow; just to this moment. She was here now. He cradled her closer and rejoined her in sleep.


	6. Essence of Forever Ch 9

The next morning ...

Jo walked into the kitchen to find Henry semi-dapperly dressed in a light-blue cardigan, white shirt (no tie and open at the collar), black trousers and black, stylish loafers. He appeared bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while reading the newspaper and sipping his coffee. She shook her head as she approached the table. How did he manage to look so refreshed after only a few hours of sleep and after such an exhausting few days? Despite the expert massage he'd given her last night and having been lovingly cradled to sleep in his arms, even a long, hot shower that morning had not fully rejuvenated her to top speed. And her personal stash of clothes had run out, so she'd donned an extra pair of his sweats, courtesy of the NYPD whenever he'd been arrested for public nudity after a death. Was this one of the unexpected perks of immortality, she wondered? The ability to be so energetic and hot looking after only a few hours of sleep? First thing, she jokingly vowed, after their marriage, she would teach him that it was okay to be scruffy sometimes like she felt right now.

At the sound of her footsteps, Henry lowered the paper and smiled broadly at her, admiring her freshly-scrubbed, empirical beauty. He folded the paper and set it down beside his plate, sensing her self-consciousness because the NYPD sweats over-enveloped her smaller frame. He loved the slight blush on her cheeks and the way her hair pulled back into a ponytail allowed the perfect bone structure of her face to show; although he felt she might argue that point with him. First thing, he vowed, after their nuptials, he would physically pin her down and cover her with kisses until she admitted that she was as beautiful as the day was long.

"Good morning," he cheerily greeted her, rising from his chair to give her a soft kiss. "Sleep well?"

"Morning," she replied. "Yes, and no." He opened his mouth slightly, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Yes: Very nice sleeping in your arms, No: not good sleeping fully clothed," she explained. "Makes you sweat more and you wake up with your clothes all wrinkled and sticking to you." She waved a hand, dismissively. "They're in short wash cycle."

She hugged him closer and breathed in deeply to take in the scent of his aftershave and to rub her cheek against his. She loved the feel of his scruff against her skin. "Mmm, you smell good," she cooed.

"Mmm, I think that's you, my dear," he countered. "You smell wonderful like a meadow after a spring rain."

She laughed a bit and said, "Well, thank you, kind sir." They broke away from their embrace and she sat at the table, looking around. "Where's Abe?"

"Oh, he's at an estate sale on Long Island," Henry replied as he filled a plate with bacon, eggs and fried potatoes for her. He set the plate down in front of her and retook his seat. "He left a note that breakfast was in the oven warming and he would be back this evening by dinner time." He picked up his coffee mug again and sipped from it.

She listened while buttering her toast and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Good for him. You know, it's great that he stays so active and loves what he does. Maybe you should attend an estate sale with him sometimes just to go along for the ride." She blew on her coffee, took a sip, then a bite of toast. He didn't seem to be listening so she waved a hand in front of his face. It worked to snap him out of his reverie and he smiled at her, lowering his eyes.

"Sorry, I couldn't help but think ... "

"Not Wyndham again," she asked, slightly shaking her head.

"No, no, no," he quickly replied, "I was thinking about our four former morgue guests and what they must be doing right now. How they're dealing with their apparent newly regained mortality." He leaned back and crossed his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I can imagine that it's a lot like finally being able to get off of a Merry-Go-Round and walk around on the solid ground with everyone else. Start enjoying life," she speculated.

He frowned a bit, tilting his head, but said nothing. He didn't want to open that can of worms again; not after their previous night's discussion. For _he_ imagined that it was just the opposite; rather more like finally being able to _board_ the Merry-Go-Round and start enjoying life. He didn't want to upset her. Not now. Not when their wedding was only weeks away.

She sighed and placed her fork down onto her plate of half-eaten food. "Spit it out."

"I ... beg your pardon?" he asked, caught off guard.

" **Say** what you're **thinking** ," she urged him.

He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. "Jo, I ... " He dropped his hand and looked at her.

She leaned forward over her plate. "No secrets, Henry," she strongly reminded him.

He quickly shared his opposing thoughts with her, his words coming out in a rush. No secrets.

"There. Now, was that so hard?" she asked.

"Actually, yes, it was a bit painful," he smirked.

"But I'm not biting your head off or walking away because we harbor opposing views on this subject." She reached over and covered his hand with hers. "And I can understand why you would feel the way you do about this. I just don't want you to do something rash; something that would take you away from me. Who knows? Maybe one day - " She was interrupted by the landline phone ringing.

Henry rose to answer the extension in the sitting room. "Hello? ... Oh, yes, how are you? ... Yes, that would be perfectly fine. Look forward to seeing you then." He hung up and returned to his seat. "My tailor," he shared with her. "I want to look my absolute best for you at our wedding." He studied her for a few moments. "And, you needn't worry, Jo. I have no plans to engage the services of Dr. Wyndham."

vvvv

James Wyndham's residence, Greenwich Village ...

"Come in, Mr. Morgan." Wyndham welcomed Abe into his luxury work loft. They walked past several unoccupied desks with silent computers and darkened monitors. "I don't usually see clients on weekends," he said over his shoulder. "But seeing as you're Dr. Morgan's friend ... "

"Oh, well, thank you; I appreciate it," Abe replied. He was nervous. And he felt guilty for having lied to his father about being at an estate sale. He'd apologize later, but if this man could do for Dad what he'd done for those other four people, his services deserved to at least be explored. They finally reached the residential area of the loft and Abe sat on one of the plush, brown, leather sofas.

"Can I get you anything?" Wyndham asked. When Abe declined, he sat down in the armchair next to the sofa. "So. You're here because you want to take advantage of my services, right?"

"Uh, not exactly," Abe replied. "More like I have some questions regarding your sessions."

Wyndham nodded thoughtfully, his legs crossed and his hands clasped in his lap. "I see. So which session are you interested in? And who would the subject be? You or the Doctor?"

"I'm simply here to ask questions," he calmly repeated. "The, uh, Essence of Forever sessions intrigue me."

Wyndham studied him for a few moments, then said, "Dr. Morgan, then." He raised an eyebrow and waited for Abe's response.

The last thing Abe wanted to do was give away his father's closely guarded secret to a stranger. He steeled himself and presented his best poker face to Wyndham. "Look, I'm willing to pay. I just came to ask you a few questions."

Wyndham's self-assuredness dampened a bit and he said, "Alright. What do you want to know?"

"Why 'Essence of Forever' as opposed to 'Essence of Life'? What's the difference?"

Wyndham glanced at the brochure Abe held. "The 'Life' session is explained in the brochure. However, after having dealt with ... a certain group of others ... I realized that something else was going on with them. Something extraordinary." He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You see - "

"Wait, wait, there were others besides Hattie and the other three?" Abe excitedly interrupted him.

Wyndham sat back in his chair. "Yes. There were, are, others. And I strongly believe that your friend, Dr. Morgan, is one of them." He rose from his chair and walked over to the refrigerator and retrieved a tall pitcher of water from it. "Cucumber water," he told Abe. "Great for the constitution." He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured himself a tall glass. "Sure you won't join me?"

Abe twisted in his seat and declined once again. "Forget about my friend, forget about me. I'm paying for this time so if you could simply answer some of my questions... "

Wyndham downed the rest of the contents of the glass and refilled it halfway. "During my regression sessions - it's difficult to explain in laymen's terms - but I inadvertently feel when my subjects meet and leave their past selves. For want of a better word, the 'essence' of those past lives waft over me like that of a passing breeze. The 'essence' temporarily seeps into me and lasts for a few hours." He loosened his tie, then his collar and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Huh. Warm in here," he said, pressing the cold drinking glass to his cheek, then forehead. He cleared his throat and continued.

"It's sort of like when you're on the subway platform. As the train moves through the tunnels, you feel the rush of the displaced air. That's with my regular clients." He frowned at the drink in his hand and placed the glass on the counter with a clatter as if it were suddenly too heavy for him. "Clumsy me," he murmured, then turned his attention back to Abe.

"I encountered my first ... special client about five years ago. The experience was markedly different in that there was no rush of wind feeling, indicating that there were no past lives to regress to. Instead, I saw the subject dressed as if in an earlier time period. I could feel the subject's emotions: fear, sorrow, regret then ... calm. After that, a sudden feeling of being pulled forward through a tunnel. I saw faces of unknown people and unfamiliar scenes. Then there was this brilliant flash of light and," he searched for the right words. "It felt as if the subject had died. But in the next instance, I felt that they were in the water and gasping for air."

He leaned over onto the counter and supported himself with his elbows. "That happened over and over; each time the subject's hair and dress reflected an earlier and earlier time period." He coughed a couple of times and caught his breath. "Frightened, I tried to end the session but I only succeeded in pulling myself out of it. I watched, panic-stricken, as the subject continued to experience several more of these episodes. I didn't know what to do, so I hid them in my extra bedroom. Finally, after two days and I don't know how many episodes of deaths and rebirths, I found the courage to rejoin the regression in an effort to try to end their suffering." He raised up and shook his head, smiling a bit, embarrassed. "Must be coming down with something," he murmured.

"You could just 'rejoin' a session once you'd extricated yourself from it?" Abe asked.

"Well, I'm a bit more than just a hypnotherapist; I'm also an empath. I feel the emotions of others. I can feel them now, even without a session. They're out there." He tilted his head. "You didn't laugh," he observed. "Is that because you've become accustomed to out-of-the-ordinary experiences?" He was met with silence. "It's okay. Whatever it is you're hiding or whomever it is that you're protecting," he said with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, I rejoined h- the subject just as the last, or, rather, the first episode was occurring."

First _death_ , Abe said to himself.

"This time the emotions felt new. I call it the triggering episode that gave the subject an unnaturally long lifespan that probably would have lasted forever," he shrugged. "There was no tired awareness with this episode, just the fear, panic, regret, and calm. The subject died and their life flashed before their eyes again, but this time, it repeated as if in a loop. It took some doing but I was finally able to, to, grab them at the beginning of the loop and pull them forward; back to the present without any further death/rebirth episodes, thankfully." He leaned against the kitchen island as he moved around to the other side and propped himself up onto one of the bar chairs.

"Hey, you okay?" Abe asked, concerned.

He chuckled a bit. "A little tired, I guess." He wiped his brow again with the back of his hand and leaned over onto the island, knocking his hand against the water pitcher and glass, nearly upending the glass.

Abe stood up, his alarm growing. Wyndham was clearly in distress. "Look, I have some medical knowledge and you don't look so good. I'm calling 911."

"No, no," he waved him off. He coughed, then continued. "I need to tell someone this." He cleared his throat again and coughed again. Abe quickly moved to support him and help him over to the sofa.

"I'm calling 911," he told him and grabbed his phone from his pocket.

"I don't know what's wrong." He struggled to speak. He grabbed Abe's free arm and rasped, "The subject (cough, cough) had a scar like a rope burn on his, his neck."

"Just try to take it easy, okay?" Abe urged him. He made a mental note that the subject was male.

Wyndham coughed and wheezed, shaking his head. He was determined to finish telling him. "When he finally woke back up, the scar gradually vanished. Just like the scars on the other three in the morgue had. He became mortal and, and," he laughed and coughed at the same time, blood now bubbling up and out of his mouth. "He was pissed!" He coughed more. "Totally pissed!" He writhed in pain and dug his fingers into Abe's arm.

"Take it easy, there," Abe urged him again as he managed to pull free of Wyndham's painful grasp. He watched helplessly as the doctor struggled to breathe and his eyes rolled back into his head.

 _(911, what is your emergency?)_

"Thank God!" Abe quickly shared the reason for the emergency and Wyndham's address. He held the phone to his ear with his shoulder as Wyndham began to convulse, then he placed it on speaker and set it down on the coffee table behind him. He loudly relayed the details of Wyndham's rapidly deteriorating condition to the 911 Operator as he desperately tried to do what he could to help him.

vvvv

"We got a body," Jo said, closing up her phone and grabbing her coat. She dropped the phone into her coat pocket. Luckily, it hadn't taken long to launder her clothing because of its lightweight material. "You're off today, so see you later." She kissed him on the lips and after a few seconds, pulled herself away from him. "Gotta go," she whispered.

"Who is the ME on scene?" he asked, although he was sure he knew ... and dreaded that he knew.

Jo pulled her phone out of her pocket and speed-dialed Hanson's cell phone. "Hey, Mike. I'm on my way, but who's the ME on scene?" She nodded and said, "OK. See you in a few." Closing up her phone and turning back to Henry, she said, "Tillerson." Henry visibly relaxed and sighed a sigh of relief. She nodded and grinned. "I know, I know. Poor Dr. Washington. After all his years of service, it's amazing how much confidence he does not instill in anyone." They both chuckled loudly and with that, she turned and walked down the stairs and out of the shop.

Henry had followed her down to lock the shop door and wave goodbye, but he frowned slightly when she didn't drive away. Instead, she answered her phone again and her smile faded. Staring at her phone, she disembarked the vehicle and walked quickly back up to the shop's door. He opened it for her, concerned.

"You'd better come with me," she said. "The vic is James Wyndham and ... " She bit her lower lip, her face pinched as she looked away from him.

"And what, Jo?" What a shame, he told himself. That gifted man, dead. But there was something that she wasn't telling him.

"Abe is there, too."


	7. Essence of Forever Ch 10

Henry and Jo arrived at Wyndham's luxury loft, now a crime scene. They identified themselves and worked their way past the yellow crime scene tape and on into the living quarters where Wyndham's body still lay on the sofa, covered with a sheet. The sight of his lifeless form was upsetting enough to Henry but not as upsetting as seeing his son being questioned in connection with his death. His and Abe's eyes met briefly but long enough for fatherly disapproval to be met with contriteness. Henry's expression softened as he sighed and clasped his hands in front of him.

Jo caught the exchange and leaned over sideways to Henry and whispered, "Talk to Tillerson. I'll talk to Abe." She pulled her lower lip in and stepped away from him towards Abe.

He turned and saw Tillerson squatting on the side of Wyndham's body and approached him.

"Dr. Morgan," Dr. Tillerson cheerily greeted him without looking away from the corpse. "Checking up on me?" he asked good-naturedly, covering the corpse's face back up with the sheet. He then stood back up.

"No, no," Henry replied, smiling a bit and lowering his head. "Although the deceased and I had only recently met, my, uh, cousin," he indicated by nodding his head towards Abe, "was apparently the one who made the 911 call."

"Really?" Tillerson, surprised, glanced quickly at Abe, then back at Henry. "Your cousin believes in this past life regression stuff?" He pulled off his gloves and deposited them into a waste receptacle on the side of the sofa near Wyndham's feet. The mildly surprised look on the face of Tillerson's assistant did not go unnoticed by Henry.

Tillerson and Henry stepped back out of the way so the body could be zipped up into a black, plastic, body bag and transported back to the morgue. He gave last minute instructions to his young assistant, Miriam Dwyer, and turned back to Henry. "I hear the guy was a scam artist." He scoffed and added, "I'm no detective like Martinez or Sherlock like you, but his killer is most likely one of his clients."

Henry chose to ignore Tillerson's earlier question about Abe's beliefs in Wyndham's services. "His killer? he asked. "Have you determined a preliminary COD?"

"Poisoning," he replied confidently. "Ethylene glycol, I suspect."

Henry frowned, clasping his hands behind his back. "A colorless, odorless substance found in anti-freeze; very dangerous once ingested and frequently fatal."

"And the sweetness of it could easily hide, undetected in a beverage," Tillerson added and tipped his head towards the pitcher of cucumber water on the counter of the kitchen island and the near-empty drinking glass.

Henry knew that by ingesting the poisonous liquid, Wyndham could have suffered severe organ damage, including kidney failure. However, he'd recalled reading from a recent medical journal that if the one working kidney was already damaged, death could come all the sooner. Which is what may have happened to Wyndham. Tillerson, in his opinion, was a capable ME, but he now wished that he could perform the autopsy himself.

Henry also knew that Tillerson was wrong about Wyndham's abilities but he dared not share his opinion with him. However, his assumption that one of Wyndham's clients may have been the killer seemed more plausible. Which one, though? He recalled with a tinge of sadness their brief encounter in the morgue the previous evening.

"He might have been able to last a little longer if both of his kidneys had been working. Well, gotta go, Henry," Tillerson said." They shook hands and he left. Odd, he thought to himself. How would Tillerson know about Wyndham's one kidney without an autopsy? He pushed the concern to the back of his mind, chalking it up to the fact that Tillerson had had a much longer time to examine the body than he had.

"Uh, hey, Henry," Abe smiled nervously and cautiously approached him. "What a shame," he said, motioning towards the bloodstained sofa that still showed the impressions of Wyndham's recently removed corpse.

Henry knitted his brow and stared intently at his son. "Abraham," he sighed and shook his head disappointedly.

Abe quickly held up both hands and said, "Before you say anything, I was just here to ask questions."

"Questions," Henry nodded, considering. "About what?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Abe laughed nervously. "Let's, uh, let's discuss this somewhere else, okay? I'd kinda like to get outta here now." He jiggled his eyebrows up and darted his eyes repeatedly towards the sofa.

Henry grunted and pursed his lips. He raised a finger to Abe and walked over to consult with Jo. When she informed him that she expected to be there a little longer, he told her that he would leave with Abe.

"Don't be too hard on him," she advised him with a smirk. He frowned when she told him, "I know that look. Whatever he was doing here, I'm sure that he was just being a good son and gathering information that he thought might help his _father._ " She raised her eyebrow, emphasizing the last word.

A smile slowly washed over his face and he rolled his eyes. "I'll take that into consideration." They shared a parting smile and she turned her attention back to the crime scene. Disapproval once again showed on his face as he walked back to rejoin Abe. He dipped his head and extended his arm towards the door. "Shall we?"

"Oh, I don't like that tone of voice," he groaned, walking ahead of Henry as they left the loft.

"And well you shouldn't," Henry informed him. He followed behind Abe and bit his tongue in an effort to ward off the smile threatening to usurp his stern expression.

As the elevator doors closed, Abe's exasperation spilled over as he took in his father's look of disapproval. "Will you just cut me some slack, please, and stop looking at me like that?" He folded his arms across his chest and grunted. "Never liked that look."

vvvv

During the drive back to the shop, Abe explained his reasons for having visited Wyndham and shared with his father what the hypnotherapist had told him about the immortal client (now mortal) he'd met five years earlier.

"As he was dying, he spilled his guts to me, literally," Abe said, locking the car door and joining Henry at the shop's door.

"Hmmm ... this unknown man was upset at having lost his immortality as a result of Wyndham's treatment," Henry stated thoughtfully.

"I'd say that was a pretty strong motive for murder," Abe pointed out.

"Yes, I suppose there are those who would value something like that," Henry softly replied.

"Something like - " Abe couldn't believe his ears. "Henry! There are those who would give their weight in _gold_ , to have 'something like that', as you call it!"

"And yet, you visited Wyndham to find out how or if he could help me to regain my status as a mortal human being," Henry countered.

"Well, yeah, because I know you want to grow old with Jo ... not ... lose her like you did Mom." Abe's voice had grown gradually quieter.

Henry grimaced slightly but said nothing. Abe broke the awkward silence between them.

"But if I were you," he said, pointing a finger at him, "I'd be happy just to marry a wonderful woman like Jo and live my life one day at a time with her no matter what the future holds."

vvvv

Monday morning in the precinct ...

"What do we have in the poisoning case, Detectives?" Lt. Reece asked, studying the bulletin board with his photo, DOD, TOD and COD.

"James Edward Wyndham II, 52, divorced, ex-wife, Lillian, deceased ten years ago; skiing accident. A son, James III, is a freshman at BYU." Hanson looked up at Reece. "He's flying in tomorrow to formally ID and take possession of the body." He lowered his eyes to his notes again. "Sixteen-year-old daughter, Meikel, has been living with an aunt and uncle in Salt Lake City, Utah, for the past couple of months where she's in her junior year of high school. From what we found in his papers at his home, he planned to chuck this guru business and join them as soon as his loft was sold. He'd planned to help his twin brother, John, run his restaurant again in Salt Lake." After having witnessed Wyndham's remarkable accomplishment of using hypnosis to bring Hattie, David, Ming and Margaret out of their limbo and back to their mortal lives, Hanson now felt guilty for having ever doubted his claims set forth in his late-night infomercials.

"Trace evidence revealed that his pitcher of cucumber water had been tampered with," Jo stated.

"Naturally," Reece laughed humorlessly, "since somebody dumped a big swig of anti-freeze into it."

"And, it appears that that same person may have known that he had only one kidney to fight off the toxicity," Jo added.

"Do we have a suspect?" Reece asked.

"Yes," Jo reluctantly replied, quickly glancing at Hanson. "Paul Fields. Unis are bringing him in as we speak."

Reece frowned and asked in a low tone, "Him? He was ecstatic when his ... Cousin Hattie was revived by Wyndham." Jo and Hanson both shrugged. "And what can the justice system really do to him if he's ... " She blew out an exasperated sigh. "I sincerely hope it wasn't him." She continued in a more normal voice. "I hear Tillerson's the ME. How's Henry handling that?" Reece asked, a slight smile on her face.

"Ants in his pants," Hanson replied with a smirk. "Apparently, he doesn't feel that Tillerson is putting all he's got into the autopsy. He's achin' to dig his hands in there. Literally."

"Well, you know Henry," Reece smiled, "dot every 'i', cross every 't'. I doubt if he thinks that anyone else could do that as well as he can." Her smile faded. "Let me know when Fields arrives." The two detectives nodded and Reece departed to her office.

vvvv

"Fields?" Henry's voice, full of indignance, boomed out of his office and carried into the morgue. "Why, that's utterly ridiculous!" He listened to Jo's response on the other end of the call. "Yes," he replied. "Yes. I most definitely want to be present when the two of you question him." The call ended, he placed his desk phone's receiver back into its cradle and quickly stood up to remove his white lab coat and hang it on the coatrack. "Lucas? Lucas!" He called to his young assistant as he marched two-fisted, arms swinging, towards his office door.

"Yeah, Doc." Lucas stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and concerned at the urgency in his boss' voice. Henry beckoned him closer. "Uh, yeah, what's up? You leaving?"

Henry's tone was hushed but the look on his face was pure cloak 'n dagger to Lucas. "Paul Fields is being brought in for questioning in the Wyndham murder case." He paused to look over Lucas' shoulder and walked quickly past him to close the door. He walked back to Lucas and continued. "Keep your eye on Dr. Tillerson. It seems that in this particular case, he has chosen to abandon his usually stellar practices for the more slipshod ones employed by Dr. Washington. As much as it behooves me to question the authenticity of a heretofore respected colleague's work, I feel it is necessary in this instance." The look on Lucas' face confused him. "What is it, Lucas? Do you understand?"

"Well, ya kinda lost me with 'behooves'," he slowly replied. "I mean I've heard it before or read it in a Dickens novel," he stroked his chin thoughtfully then grinned and snapped his fingers. "It means you're ... upset!" He sighed and waved his long arms around and explained, "Sorry, Doc. It's just that when you get excited you start tossin' those Austen-y, Mr. Darcy-ish words around and it's sometimes hard to understand what you mean ... " His grin faded when he noticed the dark cloud on Henry's face. Suddenly it hit him. "Whoa, wait, you don't think Dr. Tillerson is covering something up, do you? That he had something to do with Wyndham's death, do you?"

Henry pursed his lips and sighed regretfully.

"Whoa, you do. Wow." Lucas took a soldier's stance and raised his hand to his brow in a salute. "You can count on me, Doc."

Henry's shoulders rose and his chest expanded as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled, deflating himself. He turned to leave his office and mused, _At home, I have to deal with Abraham's horseplay. At work, I must deal with Lucas' shenanigans_. He shook his head but couldn't help but smile because he loved his son to no end. And a strange mix of fatherly/big brotherly affection for his young assistant grew stronger each day.


	8. Essence of Forever Ch 11

Lt. Reece and Henry watched on the opposite side of the two-way mirror as Jo and Hanson questioned Paul Fields in the small interview room. His cool, calm demeanor reminded them all of Henry's when Jo had questioned him a few years ago in the subway crash investigation. At the time, Henry had been quite confident that he would never be charged in the mass-murder case because of his innocence. And being questioned by the attractive detective had given him a valid reason to be in close proximity to her again. That part he had enjoyed. But he'd also wanted to find out what clues the police had gathered so that he could use that information to exonerate himself and help bring the real culprit to justice.

He eyed the group closely, dipping his head slightly to listen intently to the questions posed by the detectives and the answers Fields provided. Although he'd only just met Fields a few days ago, his gut feeling was that the man was also innocent, despite the evidence found on the water pitcher and refrigerator door handle in Wyndham's home. The prospect of having another immortal - a normal immortal - as a friend, appealed greatly to him and he had looked forward to disclosing his secret to Fields. It was for these reasons he listened intently for anything that might help to prove Fields was not involved in Wyndham's murder.

"But you admitted to Dr. Morgan and his assistant, Mr. Wahl, and to Det. Hanson and me that you were upset with Wyndham when it at first appeared that your Cousin Hattie had died after having availed herself of his therapy, right?" Jo queried.

"Even before that," Hanson added, "when the sessions didn't seem to be going like you and she hoped they would."

"Yes," Fields admitted. "She started having these ... seizures." He didn't want to go into detail and they all knew why.

"How'd that make you feel?" Jo softly asked. "To watch her suffering like that when you were the one who'd urged her to go see him in the first place. Not to mention, the fees for his services weren't exactly bargain basement."

"I was very upset, yes," Fields agreed, nodding his head. "And for a minute there, I wanted to knock his block off. Hattie had not had an easy life growing up poor in Mississippi. Then being widowed and left alone with three children to raise. When she came to New York, things were only a half step better for her, but she's a strong woman. She'd survived." Once again, they allowed him to provide as few details as possible. "But I never did anything to him. And when he brought her out of her coma, I coulda kissed him like he was a girl!" Laughter was stifled by the four crime-solvers on both sides of the mirror. "In the end, he helped her, and three others, right? So, why would I have killed him?" He spread his hands only slightly since his wrists were cuffed to chains anchored into the table in front of him.

Hanson pushed a report over to him and said, "Well, fingerprints found on both the water pitcher and the door handle of his refrigerator match yours. The water pitcher that he drank from moments before he hemorrhaged to death on his sofa. How do you explain that?"

 _And why were his prints found on just those two items? Henry pondered to himself._

"Easy to plant evidence," Fields scoffed.

"Are you accusing us of - " Jo began before he cut her off.

"I'm saying _anyone_ could have; including the real killer." He raised his left hand and used it to secure a loosely-closed buttonhole.

 _Henry flashed back to the day he and Lucas sat in Fields' home and he recalled how he'd appeared to have used his left hand more dominantly than his right._

"Besides," he continued, "I have never set foot in his living quarters. Never went any further than the outer office part when my cousin had her sessions. If my prints were found inside his kitchen, they were planted," he adamantly contended.

"You're saying you were set up," Jo stated. "By whom and for what reason?"

"Isn't it obvious, Detectives?" he asked. "Somebody else who had access to his living quarters and who had a beef with him. Point the finger of guilt at the dumb schmuck of a security guard," he said sarcastically, pointing to the shiny badge on his neatly pressed, gray uniform shirt. "I know I can't be the only suspect on your list."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fields," Jo replied, "but your prints were found in his kitchen even though you claim that you had never set foot in it; you had motive and opportunity since you're employed in the same building that he resided in. We're going to have to hold you." She and Hanson stood up and left the room as unis took charge of him. When asked if he should be taken down to booking, Jo shook her head and instructed them to put him in the holding cell for now.

The four immediately met up in the hallway and followed Reece back toward the bullpen. Each of them was disappointed at the outcome but remained silent until they were all inside her office.

"You're not charging him?" Reece asked the two detectives. As disappointing as it was that he might be guilty, they still had to do their jobs.

"No, not yet," Jo replied, pulling her lower lip in and darting her eyes to Henry and Hanson. "He was right when he said that there might be other suspects."

"But he's the closest there is to the actual culprit," Reece pointed out. "Charge him," she sighed.

"What about the fact that he says he's ... " Hanson's voice trailed off and he glanced at Henry.

"Right," Reece sighed, her eyebrows raised. "We have no control over that." She looked at the three of them and with bitter resignation said, "We do our job, no matter what. He'll be charged and taken to Rikers to await trial."

vvvv

Earlier in the morgue ...

Lucas held one of his graphic novels up to cover his face as he sat at his workstation. Every now and then he lowered it a bit and peered over the top of it at Dr. Tillerson as he'd worked on Wyndham's corpse. As he stitched up the Y-shaped autopsy scar, assisted by Miriam Dwyer, the wall phone rang near them and Miriam pulled off a glove and answered it. When she indicated it was for the doctor, he instructed her to finish closing and then place the body back into the cooler. She nodded while he pulled off his gloves and deposited them into a clear, Ziploc bag that she held open for him. She then placed the bagged gloves in the bio-hazard waste receptacle and resumed stitching.

Lucas had scrutinized Tillerson as Henry had instructed him and had made copious notes. Miriam had complained months ago that her boss' odd way of disposing of his gloves was beginning to get on her nerves. Apparently, he suffered from a mild form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and had totally freaked out once when she'd failed to properly close the Ziploc bag and another time when she'd neglected to even bring one to a crime scene. She never forgot again, she'd said.

 _What say we switch assignments? she'd asked Lucas once._ Even though it was long before he knew of Henry's secret, he'd profusely declined, stating that he had the best and smartest boss in the OCME. Miriam had agreed and sighed that he was also the cutest boss in the OCME. The cutest _guy_ in the OCME. The cutest - and Lucas had stopped her right there and walked away, his ego a bit ripped because he had been leading up to asking her out on a date. Oh, well. But, of course, he'd never switch with anyone now. He and the others were keepers of the flame, so to speak, regarding Henry's secret.

He wasn't quite sure how his observations could be of any help to the case, but he felt he could say 'Mission Accomplished'. He took advantage of Tillerson's absence for a chance to strike up a conversation with Miriam. Hopefully, she was no longer fangirling over his boss and would agree to go out with him now.

"How's it going?" he asked, following behind her as she wheeled the corpse into the cooler and placed it back into its assigned compartment.

Miriam locked the compartment and turned to Lucas, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "Great, I guess, for Tilly." Lucas softly laughed at the nickname they'd given her boss, unbeknownst to him. "Remember how I told you that he'd chew me out if I didn't hold out those Ziploc bags for him to discard his gloves into?" When he nodded, she continued. "Well, when we were at the crime scene, he snapped them off like nothing and dumped them into a wastebasket. In the middle of the crime scene. I was surprised, hoping that he'd finally kicked that habit. Hmphf! Now, he's back on it." She shook her head again and walked away.

Okay, Lucas mentally noted, gotta document that as trivial as it sounds. Never overlook even the smallest detail, his boss had often told him. Plenty of time because, obviously, no date tonight. Again. He made his way back to his workstation and added what Miriam had shared with him to his notepad then inserted it into his backpack. He decided that a dinner of chocolate-and-caramel-covered popcorn, gummi bears, and beer should cheer him up.

"Hello, Lucas." Henry's voice broke into his thoughts. "Anything?" he asked, leaning close and lowering his voice.

Lucas pulled out his notepad and handed it to him. "It's all there. Hope it helps."

Henry took the pad from him and smiled. "Good job, Lucas. I'll, uh, study these notes in my office."

"Sure you don't need me to help you decipher them? My handwriting's pretty awful," he replied as Henry walked toward his office.

"No, no," Henry replied. "I'm sure I'll be able to make everything out. Don't keep your friend waiting on my account." He turned and disappeared into his office, closing the door behind him.

Friend? He turned around and saw Miriam standing near his workstation. "Oh, hi," he said, his stomach fluttering inside.

"Hi," she replied nervously. "Um, I was wondering if you had any plans for tonight."

Plans? He replied in the negative and held his breath. Was it even possible? Was this happening?

"Well, my bestie's hosting a binge watch party for 'Star Trek TOS'. She's serving hotlinks and mac-n-cheese cupcakes, popcorn with melted snickers on top for dessert and chocolate beer. Wanna come ... as sort of ... my date?" she asked hesitantly.

The food sounded so horrible. And chocolate beer? Plus he was a fan of practically all of the spinoffs, not TOS. Well, Spock was pretty cool. And Uhura totally rocked that little red dress. Let's see ... hmmm. "I'd love to," he told her. "Sounds like fun." Be cool. Not overanxious.

"Okay, great. Be back to pick you up at quitting time."

He smiled and waved as she walked away. When he was sure she was out of sight, he stood up and cut a few dance moves including the Lawn Sprinkler.

"Lucas!" Henry's voice bellowed from his office.

"Uh, yeah, Boss, coming." Lucas quickly entered his office and stood before his desk. "You read my notes," he managed breathlessly, a smile tugging at corners of his mouth.

"Yes," he replied. "I must compliment you. These are diligent notes." He rose from his chair and walked around his desk to face the young man. "Now. We need to conduct an experiment in order to confirm that Paul Fields did not kill James Wyndham," he said with a raised arm, jabbing a finger into the air as he spoke.

"Cool," Lucas replied. "What type of experiment?"

"I need you to poison me," he replied with the smuggest of smiles.


	9. Essence of Forever Ch 12

Notes:

To make up for a couple of previously short chapters, this one is a bit longer. Hope you enjoy it! Leave comments, critiques, thanks!

 _Henry: "... We need to conduct an experiment in order to confirm that Paul Fields did not kill James Wyndham."_

 _Lucas: "Cool. "What type of experiment?"_

 _Henry: "I need you to poison me."_

vvvv

"Wait a minute, whoa, Doc." Lucas was both bewildered and dismayed at what he thought was his boss' cavalier attitude toward his ability to die and awaken again. "I, uh, we really have to do this? I mean we already know what poisoning method killed him and ... uh ... " He slapped his hands up on either side of his head, then dropped his arms down by his sides.

Henry's smug smile turned into a slight frown; then he closed his eyes and sighed. "Lucas. It's a hypothetical."

"A, uh, a hypothetical ... okay," Lucas inhaled deeply but was still uncertain what his boss wanted him to do. Thankfully, it did not seem to involve him offing the quirky immortal. He managed to slow his breathing back down and asked, "So what are we talkin' about here?" He watched Henry return to his desk and pull a file folder from one of the drawers.

"After reviewing the crime scene photos, including the fingerprint report," he picked up Lucas' clandestine mini-report on Tillerson, "and factoring in the information in your notes, I've come to the conclusion that Paul Fields did not commit this crime." His mouth slightly open with his lower lip pulled in, his eyes shifted back and forth as he sorted out his thoughts. "You see, it is possible that the fingerprint evidence was planted." He picked up the file folder and quickly walked back to face Lucas. "Look here." He plucked a piece of paper from the folder and handed it to Lucas.

"An arrest report from three years ago for Paul Edgar Fields for ... " Lucas turned his surprised face to Henry and smilingly continued, "Public Nudity. They picked him up near the Hudson."

Henry nodded. "And this one from six months prior to that." He passed another piece of paper to Lucas which turned out to be another arrest report in which Fields had been picked up near the Hudson charged with the same offense. He shared five in all, dating back to 1974. Henry couldn't help but inwardly envy Fields for either having avoided as many deaths as he had in the same time span or for having had a better plan for avoiding detection after a death.

"1974. That's the year he claimed that he was stabbed and took his first swim," Lucas marveled, then schooled his features. "Oh, sorry, Doc." He handed the reports back to Henry and pointed out, "Well, these arrest reports probably prove that he is what he says he is, but how does it prove him innocent of Wyndham's death?"

Henry's close-lipped smile pushed his cheeks outward. "Because of this." He pointed to the reports. Lucas frowned as he looked where Henry was pointing but he was still confused. "Lucas. The fingerprints they took of him at the time of these arrests." He placed the crime scene photos of the fingerprints on the water pitcher in Wyndham's kitchen next to them on his desk. "What do you see, Lucas?"

Realization spread slowly across Lucas' face. "They're all the same. Which means - "

" - someone who had access to these reports merely made copies of his prints by transferring them onto some putty or clear tape, perhaps - "

" - then they transferred them onto the water pitcher," Lucas finished his thought. "Yeah, yeah." He bobbed his head up and down, his mouth slightly open. Then he frowned again as he studied the prints from the arrest report. "Only ... " He broke out into a smile again and looked up at Henry. "Whoever did it copied the wrong set of prints!"

Surprised, Henry tilted his head and knitted his brow. "Well, yes, he's left-handed, but how - "

"Hmphf. I'm a lefty myself," he said. "We're a small minority worldwide. Only about 8% to 10% of America's population is left handed. Kind of a ... mental game for me to pick 'em out."

Henry's eyebrows were raised while he smiled and blinked. "Very good, Lucas; and a very astute observation, I might add."

Lucas chuckled, a bit embarrassed. Astute? Cool. "But just out of curiosity, what difference is there between the copy of his prints versus if he'd actually touched the water pitcher? What put up a red flag for you on that?"

"Ah!" Henry semi-shouted, raising his air-jabbing finger, signaling the advent of a wordy lecture. "A fingerprint in its narrow sense is an impression left by the friction ridges of a human finger. Recovery of fingerprints from a crime scene is an important method of forensic science. They are easily deposited on suitable surfaces (such as glass or metal or polished stone) by the natural secretions of sweat from the eccrine glands that are present in epidermal ridges. These are sometimes referred to as 'Chanced Impressions'." He squinted and dipped and turned his head as he chopped the air to emphasize his words.

Lucas enjoyed watching him more than listening to him, although that was cool, too, whatever he was saying. But he was like some really cool Einstein-y windup toy shared all the answers when he was on the scent of something as he was now.

"However, deliberate impressions might be formed by ink or other substances transferred from the peaks of the friction ridges on the skin to a relatively smooth surface such as a fingerprint card." The familiar lop-sided grin tugged at the left side of his face.

"Or something like clear tape," Lucas added, his face happily lit up with realization.

Henry nodded, his brow knitted as he considered something else. "Or putty. I'm not quite sure what method of transference was used yet. It would pick up the fingerprint impressions without damaging the paper like tape would. He turned his lecture face back on as he once again looked at Lucas.

"Fingerprint records normally contain impressions from the pad on the last joint of fingers and thumbs," he said, holding up one of his hands and pointing with a finger from his other hand to the areas mentioned. "Fingerprint cards also typically record portions of lower joint areas of the fingers."

Lucas nodded with his mouth slightly open, seriously trying to follow his train of thought. In an effort to maintain the astute label Henry had just placed on him, he folded his arms and closed his mouth.

Henry saw through his charade and smiled. "Lucas. The killer mistakenly planted the false fingerprint impressions onto the water pitcher but only captured them from the tips of the fingers down to the second joint of each finger. As large and heavy as the water pitcher would have been, even empty, it could not have been handled easily with just the tops of the fingers and without the thumb."

"Wow. Okay. The difference in fingerprint impressions. Okay," Lucas murmured to himself, scratching the back of his head.

"Come, along, Lucas. Time to conduct our experiment and we've no time to waste." Henry had readied himself for the street, his white lab coat hung on the coat rack. His 1930's issued FBI crime scene kit under his arm, he fast-stepped out of his office and through the morgue. Lucas followed closely behind. Their destination: the scene of the crime.

vvvv

One hour earlier ...

Todd Tillerson sat brooding behind his desk in his office at the OCME for how long, he wasn't sure. Thirty, forty minutes? An hour? He played back the events of the past few days in his head. Events both known and unknown to his colleagues and the NYPD. Everyone called him by his first or last name but he knew that the assistant ME's, encouraged by his own assistant, Miriam, called him 'Tilly' behind his back. At 48, he'd been in the medical profession for a little more than half of his adult life. The only child of Beth Tillerson and her lover, Malcolm Wainwright, his entry into the world coincided with the end of his mother's arranged marriage to a much older Stephen Tillerson, and her plunge into poverty.

At 16, her parents had signed her over to 38-year-old Stephen Tillerson, a wealthy real estate investor. An emotionally distant and brooding man, Beth eventually found comfort in the arms of Wainwright, a young tennis pro at their country club. The affair discovered, Wainwright was summarily dismissed from the club and Beth, who had signed a prenuptial agreement at 16, learned the hard way at 22 about some of the finer print in the document regarding "adultery" and "forfeiture of alimony"; basically, she would leave the marriage just as she'd come to it - with nothing. As part of the divorce decree, the infant boy, Todd, would remain with Stephen. He would be afforded every advantage at Stephen's disposal; educated in the best schools; raised as a Tillerson in New York City's upper-crust society.

Just one year later, Beth, abandoned by Malcolm six months earlier, gave birth in one of the NY county hospitals to a stillborn daughter and died herself just hours later. Todd had found out shortly after starting work at the OMCE at 25. Even though he'd never known his mother, the fact that details of her life and death were kept hidden from him, caused a rift in his relationship with his adopted father. Todd had cut off all contact with him. Over the years, his 5'8" frame gained 50 pounds, enlarging both his belly and his pant size. His auburn hair had gradually lost its boyish length and fullness and was now thinly tamed under a dome of baldness. However, on his 43rd birthday, he'd received an urgent phone call from Stephen, requesting a reconciliation. He'd set his ego aside and had agreed to visit him for the first time in many years. Fully expecting to see a stooped, white-haired man of advanced years, he'd been totally shocked to instead find that Stephen had not appeared to age in all the years they'd been apart.

Four hours and half a bottle of scotch later, he'd slowly begun to digest Stephen's astounding story of a very long life and his claim of unaging immortality that had spanned five centuries. As unbelievable as his story was, Todd couldn't deny that Stephen looked barely 40 years old; the same as he'd looked when Todd was 25. At the time, Todd had jokingly attributed Stephen's youthful looks to good genes. Nearly 20 years later, he'd been forced to believe the true reason. But Stephen had also shared something else with him. Something just as remarkable that had caused him to finally begin to show subtle signs of aging.

 _"Recently I employed the services of a therapist of sorts," Stephen had told him._

 _"Therapist? Why?" Todd had asked. His father had always seemed to be a strong man, solid as a rock, he'd thought._

 _"A hypnotherapist. James Wyndham."_

 _"Wyndham!? Not that, that, bag of_ wind _on late-night TV?"_

 _"That bag of wind, as you call him, did wonders to help me with," he paused and took in a calming breath, "the guilt that had plagued me over the way that I had ... mistreated your mother, Beth."_

 _Todd frowned but listened while his normally emotionally guarded father displayed a rare openness._

 _"His hypnosis treatment caused me to revisit some rather ... painful experiences all the way back to the first time that I'd died from a plunderer's arrow during a raid on our village. I'd been trying to protect my mother, younger sister, and her infant child when suddenly there was an arrow in my heart. I died and moments later I found myself gasping for air in what is now known as the River Tees in Northern England - unclothed._

He'd gone on to relate how Wyndham's treatment had caused him to fall in and out of consciousness and had finally found himself being pulled, for want of a better word, by Wyndham's voice back to an awake state. The guilt that had gnawed at him for so many years was gone as if erased from his soul. However, the scar from his death by an arrow to the heart centuries ago had vanished. He'd strongly felt that his immortality had vanished along with it. Infuriated, he'd demanded to be put back under hypnosis to regain it but Wyndham had refused. The entire ordeal had both amazed and terrified the hypnotherapist and he'd made his own demand that Tillerson simply thank his lucky stars that he was alive and appreciate his life as it now was.

Stephen had confided to his son that he'd grown quite comfortable with his elongated longevity and had looked forward to the changing times and its eventual end. _"I won't be able to see that anymore except on an abbreviated scale like any other mere mortal," he'd snarled. "It had taken me centuries to learn how to live in this world undetected and now ... I'm going to age and die like an ordinary person!"_

Stephen's guilt over the way he'd mistreated Todd's mother was replaced with bitterness over having lost his immortality. Three years later he'd died a slow and painful death from a rare type of blood cancer.

His death had devastated Todd. After many years, he'd finally reconciled with his father only to have a few, short years with him before his death. And, like his father, he had blamed James Wyndham. He'd vowed to do what his father could not do: get revenge.

Todd Tillerson, Medical Examiner. Trusted Colleague. Respected member of the community. Recipient of several prestigious awards. He'd realized years earlier that he had neither the time nor the desire for a wife and children. His work consumed him and chairing more than a few charitable organizations took up most of his free time. He rose from his chair and walked around to view more closely the many wall hangings and trophies that marked important milestones in his career. The fact that he was also the sole heir to the vast Tillerson fortune meant nothing to him any longer, for he now had a new self-bestowed title: murderer.

In his mind, it was a perfect frame-up of the security guard, Paul Fields, most likely another immortal based on his research of him. The justice system would barely touch him if he were smart enough to have gone this long undetected. The man was virtually a stranger to him, also, so he was not barred by guilt in having framed him for Wyndham's murder. The wayward ME jokingly scolded himself for having taken advantage of the glitches in the system that had allowed him easy access to Fields' arrest records.

When he'd visited Wyndham under the false pretext of discussing his father, he'd been granted access to Wyndham's living quarters just as Abe had been. It was during that visit that he'd poisoned Wyndham's cucumber water. Afterward, at the crime scene, he'd planted the false fingerprint evidence right under everyone's noses. It nagged him, however, that he had been so careless as to have removed his gloves and tossed them into a wastebasket while there. He'd never done that before. What a time for the curative effects of therapy for his OCD to kick in! He had to retrieve those gloves. Those doctored gloves with Fields' prints on the outside of them.

His thoughts drifted to his quirky colleague whose razor sharp awareness and Sherlockian gifts helped to solve even the most baffling murders. Todd realized that he'd have a much better chance of getting away with Wyndham's murder and Fields' framing if Henry were not part of the investigation.

"What a shame, Henry," Todd whispered with mock regret. "I rather liked you. Admired you even." First things first, though. He had to get back to Wyndham's and retrieve those gloves. Then he'd deal with Henry Morgan.

Unbeknownst to the three men, their paths were soon to cross at the scene of James Wyndham's murder. Two of them planning to help exonerate an innocent man, the third bent on covering up his own crime and already planning his next murder.


	10. Essence of Forever Ch 13

_"You're not charging him?" Reece asked the two detectives._

 _"No, not yet," Jo replied. "He was right when he said that there might be other suspects."_

 _"But he's the closest there is to the actual culprit," Reece pointed out. "Charge him."_

vvvv

Hanson looked around the bullpen to make sure no one was in earshot before telling Jo that he concurred with her train of thought, that Paul Fields was not James Wyndham's killer.

"Not for us to decide, though." She crossed her arms and sat on the edge of her desk, her mouth formed into a thin, tight line.

"How 'bout we take another look at the crime scene? See what we come up with?" Hanson suggested.

Encouraged, she nodded, uncrossed her arms and stood up. But before she could say anything else, her cell phone buzzed. She rolled her eyes and snatched the phone out of her pocket and answered without checking the Caller ID.

"Martinez."

 _("Don't_ _ **you**_ _sound happy," Henry's voice tinned back at her.)_

"Should I be? Most likely an innocent man is being charged with murder and there isn't much that I can do about it."

 _("Oh, but there is, Detective.")_

"Oh, yeah, and what is that?" she challenged him.

 _("Fields didn't commit this crime.")_ He announced it with the same amount of confidence as when he usually announced that a victim was murdered. It was enough to buoy her.

"Henry, what did you find?" She held the phone with her right hand against her ear and plucked her jacket from the back of her chair with the other.

 _("I'll explain later. Meet us at the crime scene as soon as you can.")_

"Us? You're dragging Lucas over there with you?"

("At least this time I'm informing you first. And he is not being dragged; he's quite willing.")

"Where are you two now?" she firmly demanded, motioning for Hanson to follow her as she made her way out of the bullpen towards the elevators. "Okay. Wait right there; Mike and I are on our way down." As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, she said, "Henry and Lucas are waiting for us in front of the building."

"The Doc found something to help Fields?"

"Yeah, but you know Henry; he can't just tell us ... he's got to show us."

vvvv

"Surprised they haven't taken the crime scene tape down yet," Hanson scoffed, looking around the darkened living quarters in Wyndham's loft.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Jo said, " but Lieu believes she's made the best decision she can under the circumstances."

"The results of our little experiment should aid her in reversing said decision to charge Fields," Henry interjected. "Thank you, Lucas."

"Sure, Boss," he replied, glancing at his wristwatch. "Uh, if you don't need me anymore tonight, I'll just, uh ... " He pointed both index fingers up near his chin and then pointed them both to the door.

"Oh, of course, Lucas, you may leave now," Henry cheerfully replied. "Wouldn't want you to miss your ... appointment." He gave him a crafty, knowing look and winked at him.

The young man blushed a bright red as he took long, slow, backward strides to the door. "Okay, thanks, see all of you later." _Much later, if I'm lucky._ He left the living quarters and closed the door behind him.

"He's got a date," Jo realized with a big grin. She turned to Henry and dryly added, "Glad to know that some couples are enjoying themselves out there."

Hanson put both hands up and pleaded, "C'mon, you guys, no more Fred and Wilma Flintstone." He dropped his hands and stepped closer to the kitchen island, ignoring Jo's look of indignance and Henry's frowning on the other side of the island. "What we lookin' at, Doc?"

During the drive over to Wyndham's loft, he and Lucas had explained their theory that someone had planted Paul Fields' fingerprints on both the water pitcher and the refrigerator door handle, but had mistakenly used those from his right hand rather than from his dominant left. They questioned why more of his prints hadn't been found in other areas of the apartment. Lucas had listened intently again to Henry as he'd explained to the detectives the intricate differences between 'Chanced' and 'Deliberate' impressions.

"Our little demonstration here proved how difficult it would have been for Fields to have easily used his right hand to leave those prints. You'll recall how Lucas struggled to handle the heavy water pitcher with just basically the tips of only four fingers, leaving no thumb or palm prints. And he and Fields share basically the same height, build and physical strength."

"But it wouldn't have been impossible for him to have used his right hand to throw the investigation off," Hanson said, playing Devil's Advocate.

"True," Henry replied, "but the weight of the water pitcher would have caused his grip to subtly change as he handled it, causing the prints to be a bit more skewed. These prints were perfectly pressed onto the pitcher."

"And when he picked up the pitcher to place it back into the refrigerator, there should have been a second set of his own prints," Jo added.

"Right, Detective." Henry grinned broadly. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

"Now, to figure out who planted Fields' prints," Hanson said.

"I would venture that we shouldn't have to look too far," Henry sighed, his expression sobered.

"What, you have a suspect in mind already?" Jo asked.

"Yes. Unfortunately, I do," he replied.

The sound of the elevator reaching the loft and opening met their ears. The three of them stilled themselves as the heavy footsteps of someone wearing hard-soled shoes drew closer. It couldn't have been Lucas, they knew, because he had a lighter step and had worn sneakers, anyway. The footsteps ceased, followed by the sound of a rusty hinge being worked. The footsteps continued, lighter than before and stopped just in front of the door to the living quarters. The lights had remained off as part of the simulated re-enactment of the perpetrator's movements throughout the apartment. Quickly and quietly they took cover in the nearby bedroom only moments before the unknown visitor entered the living quarters. Henry's trained ear realized that the person had quickly made their way to the wastebasket on the side of the sofa. He smiled, pulling in his lower lip and licking his tongue across it. His theory was correct. He placed his hand on the doorknob but Jo silently glared at him to 'Stay Put'. Hanson placed his hand on Henry's shoulder and gently edged in front of him, his glare rivaling Jo's. A string of profanities left the unknown visitor's lips indicating that their search did not produce the desired result. Jo swung the bedroom door open, Hanson close behind her, their guns drawn. Their entry served to startle the unknown visitor.

"NYPD! Freeze!" Jo loudly commanded, her gun pointing at the silhouetted figure. "Halt!" she commanded again as the figure turned and darted out of the room, stumbling and temporarily regaining their footing. Hanson flew past Jo in hot pursuit of the fleeing figure. He tackled the person and they struggled with each other, rolling around on the floor. The person he now could tell was a man, managed to get in a lucky punch to Hanson's face causing blood to stream from a break in the skin over his left cheekbone. The man struggled to his feet but Hanson grabbed him around the ankles, causing him to crash to the floor. Hanson threw himself on top of him, shoving his knee into his back and slapping him across the back of his head.

"What part of 'Freeze' (slapping again) do you not understand, meathead!" Breathless from the struggle, he cuffed him and rose to standing position, wiping the blood off of his cheek.

Jo and Henry had shadowed the two men as they'd struggled. Although she was confident that her official partner would emerge the victor, she'd kept her weapon trained on the subject in case she needed to get a shot off. She'd also called it in and now waited for backup to arrive. Henry had done his best to resist the urge to jump in front of Jo and protect her. He found himself near a light switch and turned it on. Both detectives were more than surprised when the light revealed the cuffed man on the floor to be Dr. Todd Tillerson of the OCME. Henry, however, was not surprised. He'd already surmised his colleague was the person who had not only poisoned Wyndham but had also framed Fields in the process.

"On your feet," Jo growled, grabbing Tillerson's arm and yanking him to a standing position. "Sit," she hissed at him through clenched teeth as she pushed him into a desk chair. As the distant wail of a police siren drew gradually closer, she read him his rights. The siren grew loudest and abruptly stopped, indicating backup had arrived.

"Your ride's here, Doc," Hanson quipped sarcastically at Tillerson. Henry had quietly found a first aid kit and was finishing up tending to his wound.

"Want to tell us what you were looking for in there, Dr. Tillerson?" Jo sternly asked.

"Like you said: I have the right to remain silent," he smugly replied, focusing his eyes away from all of them.

Henry flashbacked to Tillerson pulling off his gloves after having examined Wyndham's corpse, and depositing them into a waste receptacle on the side of the sofa. He recalled the mildly surprised look on the face of Tillerson's assistant, Miriam, as well. He whispered his concerns to Jo.

"Lucas said that Tillerson's assistant, Miriam, had routinely been tasked with bringing a plastic Ziploc bag to crime scenes so that he could deposit his gloves into them after use. He had never simply tossed them into the trash, something no one should ever do."

"Especially in an active crime scene," Jo agreed.

"I believe he was searching for those gloves."

Jo nodded, pulled out her phone and called Lucas' cell phone to get Miriam's contact information from him. "Voicemail," she said, holding the phone away from her head, surprised. When she heard a beep, she left a voicemail for him to call her back ASAP. She closed up her phone and pushed it back down into her pocket. Uniformed police had entered and at Hanson's direction, taken custody of Tillerson. As they marched him out of the loft, Henry's concern for his young assistant was growing.

"What is it?" Jo asked him, noticing his pensive frown.

"There was such a short space of time between Lucas' departure and Tillerson's arrival. Their paths had to have crossed." He pursed his lips and sighed. "Lucas may not have made it out of this building at all."

With a worried expression, Jo called the precinct for a search of the OCME's online database for Miriam's contact information. "Text it to me as soon as you can," she instructed the tech at the end of the line and ended the call. Two minutes later the text came through and she dialed the number.

"Yes, hello, this is Det. Jo Martinez of the NYPD. I'd like to speak with Miriam Dwyer." _(Speaking.)_ Ms. Dwyer, I understand that Lucas Wahl was to meet up with you tonight. Have you seen him?" _(No, I went to pick him up for our date and he wasn't there. No one's here.)_ "Have you tried calling him?" _(No, but I was just about to try when your call came in. Is there anything wrong? Is he in trouble?)_ "We just need to speak with him about a work concern. Please let me know if he does contact you." Jo was about to end the call when Henry indicated for her to pass the phone to him. "Umm, hold on, Ms. Dwyer, Lucas' boss, Dr. Morgan, has a question for you." She passed the phone to Henry.

"Hello, Ms. Dwyer, this is Dr. Henry Morgan," he began. He asked her if she recalled the gloves that Dr. Tillerson had thrown into the wastebasket while at the Wyndham crime scene. He nodded and said, "A-ha!" He then inhaled deeply with a most satisfied look on his face as he listened to her reply that she had retrieved them from the wastebasket fearing that if she hadn't she would have to face Tillerson's wrath again later. He nodded several times and advised her to make sure that only the police took possession of them. He thanked her and handed the phone back to his curious partner/fiance to properly end the call. "Much fancier than my burner phone," he explained.

"So?" Jo asked impatiently. Hanson had joined them and caught the tail end of their one-sided conversation with Miriam.

"She has what Tillerson had come back to search for."

"Henry, life is a perpetual cliff-hanger with you and your revelations," Jo lamented, shaking her head. "Just tell us what you're talking about."

Hanson bit his tongue to prevent the threat of a smile.

Henry exhaled loudly and leveled a look of mock annoyance at her. "Now you're taking all the fun out of it, Detective." A look of horror washed over his face. "Lucas!"

"Lucas!" Jo echoed. "Miriam said he was a no-show for their date tonight."

"Wha - ?" Hanson asked, totally confused. "Well, let's find him."

"We must find Lucas." Henry's voice trembled as he called out his name in a hurried search through the loft. Jo and Hanson searched the other parts of the floor, calling out his name and listening for any sound in response. Just as they'd met up again with each other in the middle of the loft and had decided to call Reese for backup to help in the search, they heard a faint groan that seemed to emanate from a large steamer trunk used as decoration near the middle of the room. They quickly opened it and discovered Lucas wedged inside in a semi-conscious state, a large bump on the back of his head. Dried blood was on the back of his head and neck, pooling around and staining the bottom of his shirt collar. The two men pulled him out and carried him over to a nearby bench seat and laid him on it. Jo called 911 while Henry examined him. Hanson watched and cursed under his breath wishing he'd hit Tillerson harder than he had.

vvvv

Later at the ER at Bellevue Hospital ...

"He's suffering a mild concussion from that pretty nasty bump on his head," Dr. Richardson informed them about Lucas' condition. "He's conscious but we've given him something for the pain. We'd like to keep him overnight for observation."

Jo, Henry, and Hanson each breathed sighs of relief. "Can we see him?" Henry asked.

"Yes, but just for a few minutes. He needs his rest," the doctor replied. "Unfortunately, I doubt he'll be getting much with that head injury. The only reasons he's still with us is probably because of his youth and a thick skull." The doctor grinned and walked away.

The three looked at each other, undecided as to who would go in first or if all together.

"You go first, Henry, you're his boss," Hanson said.

"Nonsense, Detective," Henry insisted, "we all go in together." Jo and Hanson smiled in agreement.

They visited with him for about ten minutes, filling him in on the progress of the case and Tillerson's arrest culminating in Fields' release.

"Cool. Good for Fields," he slowly said, careful to maintain a position where the left side of his head rested on the pillow so as to minimize the pain level of the injury to the back of his head. His grin faded a bit. "Totally sucks for Tillerson, though."

His three visitors chuckled and thanked whatever guardian angel had protected their young colleague from greater harm.

"Just my luck," he dryly remarked, "I finally get a date with Miriam Dwyer and I stand her up." He chuckled a bit and added, "Hope she won't be too mad since I've got a pretty good reason for not showing up."

Hanson and Henry both froze at the mention of her name. Neither of them had informed the young woman of Lucas' injury. Jo smirked, holding up her cell phone.

"I texted her," she announced, then turned to Lucas and assured him, "She's on her way."

Just then as if on cue, Miriam breathlessly arrived and stared at him from the foot of his bed. Her eyes wide with anxiety and fear. "Lucas," she whispered. "Oh, my God, are you okay?" Oblivious to the others, she inched her way around and up the side of his bed while the others fell away to allow her clear passage. She placed her hand over his and squeezed it, a painful smile on her face.

"You'll have to come over on this side," he slowly enunciated. "Hurts less if I lay like this."

"Oh, oh, sorry!" She quickly scooted around to the other side of the bed with excuses to each of them. Once in his view, her painful smile blossomed into a happier one, a mirror of his own.

"Guys, this is Miriam Dwyer, my, umm, my special friend." The three exchanged smiles and greetings with her. "Miriam, these, umm, these are my friends."

The two detectives and the ME smiled and found no immediate words as a reply. Then Henry quietly said, "We certainly are, Lucas, because you are very special to us." They all basked in the warm moment then Hanson broke the silence.

"We're gonna shove off because it looks like you're in pretty good hands," he winked and smiled at Miriam, who blushed but maintained her happy smile. "Next time, though, use your fists to catch a bad guy, not that noggin of yours." Jo playfully backslapped his shoulder. They spoke their goodbyes and left the young couple who contented themselves with getting lost in each other's eyes.

vvvv

"Fields," the guard said, motioning to Paul as he sat in the holding cell, only minutes away from being bussed off to Rikers Island to await trial for James Wyndham's murder. He rose from his bunk and advanced slowly towards the cell door. As he approached, the guard unlocked it and held it open. He frowned, confused over what was happening.

"Ya caught a break," the guard snarled. "They found the one-armed man." Several other inmates within earshot of the dig, laughed out loud. When he didn't move outside of his cell, the guard explained, "You're free to go. We just got the word. Some other guy's being charged."

The guard's words finally sunk in and he stepped outside of the cell. The guard locked the door back and motioned him forward. As they walked past the others still behind bars, the whistles, kissing sounds and occasional shouts of 'Hey, waddabout me? I'm innocent, too!' or 'Take me with youuuu!' went virtually unnoticed by him as a broad grin slowly spread across his face. After signing for his belongings and scraping them back into his pockets, he finally left the jail and jogged down the steps. He paused to look up and around and gratefully breathed in the air that smelled so much sweeter on the other side of prison bars. The pull of home tugged strongly at him and he could have hailed a cab but his legs yearned to break free of the chained-ankle shuffle that had been forced on them by incarceration. Instead, he ran faster and faster breathing in the free air and finally darting into a subway entrance, which one, he knew not. Down the stairs and savoring the mundane task of paying to enter through the gates. He anxiously boarded the car and found a seat. As the train sped him closer to home, thoughts of his mother, Hattie, and baby sister, Albertine, filled his head. But also, a certain shapely, intelligent, loving, natural hair beauty invaded his thoughts. Sylvia. And possibilities. Many possibilities. The days of singularity were behind him. The thought of spending his eternal life behind bars or escaping and becoming an eternal fugitive - neither had appealed to him. But now he had a second chance to really live. And he was going to take it.


	11. Essence of Forever Ch 14

"Why isn't he talking?" Hanson asked, not really expecting an answer. His Lieutenant, Joanna Reece, stood next to him as Jo and Henry questioned the poker-faced Tillerson on the other side of the observation window. "He knows that we know about his father being ... you know," he waved his hand in a small circle.

"Would _you_ risk the expected consequences of making a public statement like that?" replying to his questions with one of her own. "And, even though his father is dead, unlike Henry, there may be no one he feels he can trust with that kind of information. Not that it will help him any in beating this murder charge. The evidence against him, I understand, is pretty conclusive. It's a good thing that his assistant, Miriam Dwyer, was able to save those gloves he'd doctored up with impressions of Fields' prints on them." She shook her head in dismayed amazement at the intelligence and creativity that some people wasted in planning and committing murder. Their efforts, she felt, would be better served towards solving the world's problems like war, hunger, poverty and climate change. She recalled Henry's hypothesis and demonstration of how Tillerson obtained a version of Fields' prints with raised ridges through the use of the new 3-D printer in the OCME's research laboratory. It would have been ingenious except for his carelessness in handling not just the doctored gloves but also the gloves he'd worn during the process in an effort to mask his own prints. Unfortunately for him, those had been recovered from his personal trash inside his home, along with a used container of antifreeze, the printer and several how-to videos he'd downloaded onto his personal laptop. Surveillance footage of him entering Wyndham's building and leaving shortly before Abe's arrival the same day helped to further incriminate him. _'The best-laid plans of mice and men ... '_

"Yeah, you're right," Mike reluctantly agreed. "Guess I'm just missing the old days before ... " his voice trailed off and he glanced quickly at the Lieutenant then back to the interrogation in progress. "I, I, I mean I like the Doc and all that, and, and, it ain't his fault what happened to him and, and - "

Reece smiled a bit but kept her eyes trained on the interrogation's participants. "Calm down, Mike. We're all still adjusting to the fact that Immortals, plural, walk among us."

Just then, the door to the small room opened and the well-dressed, balding attorney with the white mustache and mingly gray, close-cropped goatee who had earlier represented James Wyndham, confidently strode in and stood by Todd Tillerson. He identified himself and breezily announced that the former ME, now murder suspect, had recently retained him.

"Really, Detectives, questioning my client without his legal counsel present." He clucked his tongue at them and, shaking his head, added, "Shame on you." He thrust his business card at Jo, who refused to take it. He then smirked and planted it down in front of her on the table. "You may continue to display your ill manners, Det. Martinez, but my client has nothing more to say."

"Elgin McTavish," Mike muttered under his breath as Jo informed McTavish that his client was being charged with the murder of James Wyndham. "Guy gets around."

Slightly disgusted, Jo turned in her seat and looked over her left shoulder in the direction of her boss, Reece, and her partner, Mike, on the other side of the two-way mirror. Henry pursed his lips, sat back in his chair and studied the suspect and his attorney. It was clear to both Jo and him that the disgraced ME was not going to respond to any of their probing questions, especially now that his attorney had shown up. And they were not so sure that that was a bad thing. Neither of them wished for anything dealing with immortals or the extent of Wyndham's work with any to come out. The fact that Tillerson was in custody for his crime and Paul Fields, an innocent man, was now free, was enough to satisfy them both. As they both rose, signaling the end of the interrogation, a uni took charge of Tillerson and led him away, his attorney, McTavish, close behind. Henry followed Jo out of the interrogation room and into the hallway. Mike and the Lieutenant were just exiting the observation room.

"Well, even though Dr. Tillerson has chosen not to divulge any information to us, the evidence should speak for itself," the Lieutenant said with confidence. "Looks like we can really close the books on this one. Good job, all of you." She and Mike turned and walked down the hallway, headed to their respective work areas.

Jo and Henry followed closely behind. He asked her if she'd be available for dinner with him that night. Even though their wedding date was fast approaching, they still chose to maintain separate residences.

"I have a bit of paperwork to finish up on this case, but I should be able to make it," she smilingly replied. "Just you, not Abe, too?"

"He's off to another out-of-town estate sale," Henry replied frowning. "This time for real. But sometimes I think he uses these little jaunts of his as an excuse to follow The Frenchman around."

"Joyce Wilson," Jo responded with a slight smile. When Henry squinted at her, she explained, "According to her, the name that her American adoptive parents gave her."

"Ah, yes," he nodded. "She divulged that to you, too, during the investigation." He sighed and added, "I've yet to find out her Japanese birth name, though."

Jo knitted her brow, her jaw dropped and she stopped walking. "How did you find out her American name is Joyce Wilson? You really take all the fun out of these reveals, Henry."

He smiled for just a second, then cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed. In nearly a whisper, he explained, "As a concerned father, when it appeared that my son might be enamored with her, I had her investigated." He stuck out his chin defiantly with his hands clasped in front of him, ignoring Jo's surprised but amused look. "In my opinion, he should be spending much more of his time with a nice girl like Fawn and not with a woman who has such an abnormal fascination with cutting blades." His words rushed out of his mouth with perfect enunciation. "His ex-wife, Maureen, had a fetish for guns and once shot him, nearly killing him." He shuddered at the remembrance of seeing his son in the hospital as he'd recovered from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. "There was absolutely no reason for her to have harmed him in such a way even if dealing with my son can be exasperating at times," he adamantly asserted.

"Mm-hmm. Exasperating. I wonder where he gets that from?" She tilted her head to the side and crossed her arms.

Lowering his head, he pursed his lips and leveled a stern look at her. "A woman with a weapon is a dangerous woman," he declared as his upside down hand moved in a sideways sweeping motion. He stiffened, blinking his wide eyes at her, instantly regretting what he'd said. He then quickly added, "Present company excluded," slightly dipping his head at her.

Jo rolled her eyes, smiled and shook her head. She placed her hand on his arm and guided him down the hallway to the elevators. "Exasperating," she said. "I can totally relate."

vvvv

Later on that same evening, a moonlit night on the rooftop of Abe's Antiques ...

The couple held each other close, moving slowly in time to the soft, rhythmic beat of the '80s ballad, "Lady in Red". Henry smiled at the lyrics and hummed along. Eyes closed, half of his face lost in Jo's dark tresses, his arms were wrapped around her waist. Jo's body melded into his as if to confirm that they were made for each other. Her hands were comfortably but possessively on his shoulders as they danced. She listened silently to him hum; nothing but an occasional short gasp of breath left her lips. She wanted to say something, anything, but whenever she tried, something stopped her like the feel of his large but gentle hands against her petite waist; or the feel of his muscular frame working next to hers. Sighs of contentment were all she could manage.

He smelled good, like citrus and wood and all things gorgeous. Slowly she moved her hands up to his neck. The tips of her fingers toyed with the soft curls at the nape of his neck and she rested her head on his chest. Her bare cheek was cool from the mild, northerly breeze, yet his beating heart brought all the heat back to her cheeks. He pulled her closer if that were even possible, and two people slowly came to resemble one. Her bare feet were on top of his finely polished dress shoes as he moved from side to side, around and around. Slowly opening his eyes, he leaned back a bit to gaze deeply into hers. Brushing the backs of his fingers over her cheek, he dazzled a smile down at her. She was beautiful - and she was his. Who was he kidding? _He_ was _hers._

Jo looked up at him in embarrassment and awe, her face glistening in the moonlight, her eyes glittering with an emotion so intense, she couldn't even work out what it was. Then slowly he moved her away, she looked up confused, but within a second he twirled her around like a doll and pushed his front into her back, still moving slowly side to side. He rubbed his nose on the side of her long, swanlike neck and grinned. She smelled of lavender. No ... lilac. And honey. He breathed her in and smiled against her skin, warming her entire body with shivers of delight. Although the song had ended and a different one now played, they heard it not. For they danced to a melody no one else could hear. After all, they were in complete harmony as they danced the night away.

vvvv

One week later in the OCME ...

The corpse of a 22-year-old college student who binge drank on a dare and lost, lay on the cold, examining table. His untimely and unnecessary death was both an embarrassment to his university and a heartbreak for his parents. Henry closed up the young man's autopsy opening with a final stitch. He then instructed Lucas to return his corpse to the cooler.

"Uh, Boss?" Lucas' voice held a tinge of uncertainty. "How do we know for sure that he's, uh," he stopped to clear his throat and whisper, "really gone?"

Henry couldn't resist the temptation to have a joke at his young, impressionable assistant's expense. "Time will tell, Lucas." He lowered his gaze to the young man's corpse, deliberately ignoring the look of surprise and dismay on Lucas' face. "In the meantime, we do what we always do when a body is received here in order to determine the cause of death." A lopsided smile began to work itself up his left cheek. "We may also need to babysit each cadaver for a certain period of time to ensure their ultimate demise." He rolled his eyes upward to meet Lucas' again.

Lucas finally caught on. "Oh, you're kidding me," he laughed. "Okay, okay, chalk one up for the Big Guy." He bobbed his head, grinning, then it suddenly fell from his face. "I, I know you were kidding, but ... we really might have to start doing that just to make sure we won't have to, uh, evict anyone." He shrugged as Henry's eyebrows flew up. Lucas began to point, indicating some activity behind Henry, causing him to turn around. The ME smiled broadly when he saw Paul Fields entering the morgue.

"Mr. Fields." He pulled off his gloves and discarded them into the waste receptacle. The two men shook hands as Fields grew closer. "How nice to see you again. What brings you here?"

"Hello, Doctor, and it's Paul," he insisted. "Just came by to thank you for all your help recently and to pass on some messages from - our mutual friends." He could see that Henry understood which friends he was referring to.

Not taking his eyes off of Fields, he motioned behind him to Lucas. "Ah, Lucas, I'll be in my office for a bit." He stepped aside to allow Paul to pass and enter his office. "Hold all my calls, please," he instructed him as he entered his office and closed and locked the door. After closing the blinds, he turned and walked over to his desk and took his seat. "Please," he indicated one of the small chairs facing his desk and Paul sat down. "And it's Henry," he said, smiling.

Paul nodded. "Henry," he said as if trying it on like a piece of clothing to see how it fit. It fit well. "It's been quite a rollercoaster ride the past couple of weeks, huh?"

"Quite, quite," Henry agreed with a grin. "How have you and your mother and sister been getting along?" He was genuinely concerned and could only imagine how his mother felt now that she was no longer mortal.

"Well, she's happy about not having to live forever anymore, but, you know how mothers are, she's worried about me now," he chuckled. "Seems I just can't get a smile to stick to that woman's face for very long. And my sister? She's a bit confused but she's coping." He laughed softly and added, "At first, she thought Mama was a ghost. Then we explained things to her and now all she knows is her Hattie, her Mama, is back home." His smile faded a bit. "We didn't quite tell her everything. You see, even though Mama is no longer immortal, she'll still probably outlive my sister." He locked his gaze with Henry's. "Inoperable brain tumor. She gets a bit confused about things and ... she doesn't quite understand about that, either. I just hope she goes quietly, in her sleep." Paul's breath shuddered in and out. "Painful watching loved ones die and you just keep ... " he waved his hands around, "keep ... "

"Yes," Henry said, lowering his eyes and nodding. "I can imagine how helpless you must feel that their lives will one day end and the guilt you must bear sometimes knowing that yours ... well, not knowing when or if yours will end."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think you _can_ imagine, Henry." Paul smiled as Henry suddenly snatched up his head to look him in the face. "There was something about you, the look in your eyes, something, that day we first met when you came to my home," Paul continued. "That look you get when you've seen too much for too long, good and bad. Like you've seen and done more than anyone else your age. I've seen some of that same look in Mama's eyes. And I'm startin' to see it in my own," he scoffed. "How old are you, Henry?"

"Thirty-five," he replied, swallowing hard.

"C'mon," Paul urged, "the world's been hittin' at you a lot longer than that."

Henry pursed his lips, feeling somewhat cornered. He inwardly debated about whether or not to confirm Paul's suspicions. How freeing it would be, though, to have a fellow immortal confidante who was also nothing like Adam.

"It's okay, Henry," Paul said with a smile. "Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong. You still got a friend in me, though. Forever," he smiled broader as Henry's smile grew broader.

"Oh!" Paul dug his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He opened it up and removed a small photo and passed it to his new friend. Henry took it and studied it. It was a photo of a muscle-bound Paul in speedos happily holding a beautiful honey-complexioned woman with bouffant natural curls wearing a skimpy bikini. "That's my woman and me. Her name's Sylvia."

"She's lovely, Paul." Henry smiled and returned the photo to him. As Paul placed it back into his wallet, Henry frowned a bit and asked, "Please don't take this the wrong way, but either the photo was taken quite some time ago or - "

"It's a fake!" Paul laughed. "She didn't need a fit model, they could have just used her own body. But I've never looked like that before, man," he continued laughing along with Henry. "The photographer takes your picture and then plasters your faces onto the bodies of some fit models." Paul playfully surveyed Henry's looks and said, "You should try it sometime with _your_ lady. Vegas. The place is in Vegas."

Henry frowned playfully and replied, "I'll consider it." The two men laughed and talked a bit more regarding their most interesting adventure. Paul filled Henry in on the doings of two of the other three former immortals, Margaret and David.

"Margaret's gone back to her hometown where she was born. It still stands but I'm sure it has changed over the past 130 years since she lived there. David and his wife are working to patch things up but ... " he shrugged, lowered his eyes and shoved his hands down into his jacket pockets, "she's hung up on the fact that she now looks older than he does." He shrugged again, lowering his eyes.

His words struck a nerve with Henry; not as raw now as it once had been, not since he's had Jo in his life, but he didn't envy the couple their turmoil. Especially since he and Jo would face the same situation one day. Both his son and his fiance had tandemly convinced him to live in the moment, live life for today. The past is over and done and the future holds so much promise.

"Dave's not giving up, though," Paul quietly said. "I wish them well."

"As do I," Henry added. "So, nothing about Ming Tong?"

Paul rose from his chair and waved his hand dismissively. "That dude's gone. Where I don't know. Maybe back to China. He just never would say much. I think that he's been around for maybe 400 years or so, maybe longer," he shrugged. "The fact that he's most likely going to really die someday has freaked him out."

"Or maybe, like Margaret, he's simply gone ... home," Henry ventured. If nothing and no one held him here in New York City in the future and he had somehow regained his mortality, would he return to England to die his last death? As he pondered, he was unaware of Paul's extended hand. "Oh, sorry," he said and quickly grasped his hand and shook it.

"You were gone, man," Paul chuckled as he followed Henry to the door.

Henry unlocked it and opened it for him, suddenly feeling the urge again to share with him about their shared conditions. "Yes, I sometimes get lost in my imaginings." But as he'd told Jo once, it was a story for another time.

The doctor rejoined Lucas in the morgue. As Paul left, he exchanged polite nods with Jo as she entered. Lucas sparrow-eyed the two as Jo approached and Henry's smile broadened. Jo's face, however, held no smile, just a look of serious intent.

"Hey, Detective," Lucas hailed as she approached.

"Hey, Lucas, glad to see you back at work," she replied but seemed distracted. She came to a halt directly in front of Henry, her hands on her hips, her mouth set in a straight line. "We have to talk."

"Ah, yes, ah, let's go into my office." Henry licked his bottom lip and cast a worried glance in Lucas' direction, who chose to stare at something very important on his blank computer monitor.

Once inside, Jo stomped over to his desk and heaved a deep sigh, her shoulders rising and falling in conjunction. Henry wrung his hands together wondering what he may have done to cause her ill temperament. Nothing came to mind. And it had been a long time since he'd jumped in front of her or anyone to take a bullet, so...

She suddenly whirled around and faced him with teary eyes and a pouty mouth.

"Jo, darling, whatever has upset you so?" He placed his hand on her waist and pulled her close and stroked her cheek with his other.

"The caterer's a crook! He's charging us $15,000 for just the dumb cake!"


	12. Essence of Forever Ch 15

It had been a fun evening at the apartment of Sheila Downes, Miriam Dwyer's bestie, to make up for the party she and Lucas had missed a week earlier because of his head injury, the result of his encounter with a murderer. Everyone had listened to him recount the jaw-dropping tale of his violent encounter with the bloodthirsty criminal. Well, maybe not bloodthirsty, just desperate and stupid.

He was glad that the menu wasn't a repeat of last week's party faire: hotlinks, mac-n-cheese cupcakes, popcorn with melted snickers on top, and chocolate beer. Eww. Tonight they'd been served burgers, chips, waffle doughnuts, and beer to wash everything down.

The tall, gangly, Assistant ME was also very glad that he could now call Miriam his GF. His girlfriend. Wow! Seems like a long time since he'd been able to call anyone that. Almost a year! And she was pretty. And she was nice. And smart. And he loved the way her eyes sparkled and her face lit up whenever she looked at him. Her slender hand and slim fingers intertwined perfectly with his. Her skin was so soft. Her laughter filled him and made him grin silly. But best of all, she really seemed to like him, too. The way it felt so comfortable to share even little things with each other about themselves ... was ... awesome.

Careful, he cautioned himself. Don't slide down into that love tunnel alone again. Make sure her heart wants the same thing that your heart wants this time, dude. Til then ... one step at a time. One ... freakin' ... step at a time.

Before he knew it, they were standing outside Miriam's door. The disappointment on her face that signaled they were at the end of their first date, was mirrored on his own. It pleased him that she seemed as reluctant to say goodbye as he was. Their hands still intertwined, they now faced each other. Well, as best they could since he towered head and shoulders over her. But she eagerly met his gaze with her upturned face.

"Well, um, I guess this is goodnight," Miriam shyly said, biting her lower lip.

"Yeah," Lucas replied, sighing nervously.

"I don't kiss a guy on a first date," she suddenly announced.

"Oh, me neither," Lucas replied, shaking his head, then grimacing at what he knew was a dumb reply. " I mean, I totally get that. Yeah."

"Hope you don't think that's too old-fashioned." Was it just him, he wondered, or had she just stepped closer to him?

"Oh, oh, nooooo, not old-fashioned, you're just, just exercising your prerogative as an independent woman." He bobbed his head up and down and though disappointed (VERY disappointed) he managed to fix a thoughtful look on his face. "I, I totally ... respect that."

"I'm so glad you feel that way," she whispered and stepped even closer to him, placing them toe-to-toe. "About a woman exercising her prerogative, I mean." Her lips were somehow now inches away from his own. He felt her warm breath against his cheek.

"A-a-and, uh, yeah, yeah," he stammered and realized that she was on her tiptoes and he was bending down. No. She was pulling him down toward her by gripping his jacket.

"Lucas?" she asked with wide-eyed innocence.

"Yeah," he replied, swallowing.

"Kiss me," she said with brazen determination. Before he could reply, she crushed her lips against his and his feet left the earth, just ... left ... left the earth, skyrocketing him halfway to Heaven. After a few moments, they broke contact and, struggling to maintain their composure as they took in needed oxygen, moved slowly away from each other.

"Nite," she said and disappeared behind her closing door.

Lucas smiled, savoring the memory of the moment, then turned and walked down the street toward the subway entrance. His long legs threatened to buckle on him as his muscles twitched from nervousness. Giddy nervousness. A young couple of college age passed by him and the guy, noticing the broad smile still on Lucas' face, jokingly asked, "Nice night, huh, buddy?"

"Yeooowww!" was Lucas' unbridled response and he raised his fisted arms up in a Rocky Balboa victory pose, prompting the young couple to simultaneously gasp and walk more briskly away from him. What did he care if they thought he was crazy? Crazy in love. In love? So soon? Thass right! Crazy in love.

vvvv

 _ **From the end of the previous chapter, #14 ...**_

 _[Jo] came to a halt directly in front of Henry, her hands on her hips, her mouth set in a straight line. "We have to talk."_

 _"Ah, yes, ah, let's go into my office."_

 _Once inside, Jo stomped over to his desk and heaved a deep sigh, her shoulders rising and falling in conjunction._

 _"Jo, darling, whatever has upset you so?" He placed his hand on her waist and pulled her close and stroked her cheek with his other._

 _"The caterer's a crook! He's charging us $15,000 for just the dumb cake!"_

vvvv

Eight days later (from the cake discussion) and three days (after Lucas' and Miriam's first date) at the home of Mike and Karen Hanson ...

"So glad we got that cake business straightened out with the caterer," Jo sighed in relief as she turned and pivoted in front of a full-length mirror.

She wanted everything to be perfect: her hair, her dress, the wedding, the entire day. In less than an hour, she would become Mrs. Henry Morgan. Henry had not seen her dress yet because she'd wanted to surprise him. There was little left, she'd imagined, that could surprise an Immortal, who'd had many more life experiences than the combined experiences of those gathered to witness their ceremony. And this was going to be a small but hopefully, memorable surprise for him. It had been difficult at times to keep her apparel choices hidden from him, but he'd also kept her in the dark about what he'd wear as the groom. So ... tit for tat.

Her mother, sister and she had chosen for her, a sleeveless, ivory-colored gown of silk and lace. A one-inch wide belt of pink, silk ribbon around the waistline, accentuated the fitted bodice. The asymmetrical, draped-edge skirt was ankle length in the back and flowed in three layers of graduated lengths up and around her legs to criss-cross just above the knee in the front. The gown's toga-style neckline worked well to hide a bullet scar just above her collar bone near her right shoulder. Pink champagne-colored, open-toed high heels complemented the ribbon belt. Instead of a full veil, she'd chosen an elegant cage bridal veil with pearls spaced two inches apart from each other. They lightly accented the veil's edge which was attached to a metal comb with decorative pearls along the comb's edge.

Her makeup was minimal but flawless. Younger sister, Jamila, was an expert makeup consultant and knew just how much was needed to bring out her beautiful, brown, almond-shaped eyes and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. And she'd chosen to wear her hair unparted, swept loosely to the side, and gathered on the left side of the nape of her neck, just below her ear. The remainder of her outwardly curled long tresses were loosely tucked up into the gathered portion, forming a bouffant, loosely-formed bun. Some of the long strands fell attractively across her bare shoulder. Three long-pronged hair pins, specially designed to match the antique pearl necklace and earring set she wore, secured the bun at its gathering point.

Henry did know about the necklace and earrings, for they had belonged to his mother long before his father had tainted their wealth and possessions with ill-gotten gains from the slave trade; and, although antiques, their beauty was timeless.

 _"As timeless as your own beauty, my dear," he told her with a smile and glistening eyes._

The ring he would place on her finger to seal their union had once belonged to his grandmother - his mother's mother - and was also untainted by any profit from the slave trade. That was important to him, for his lady deserved all that was clean and pure.

"You look lovely, Josefina," her mother, Racquel, happily remarked. "My daughter, Mi Hija, marrying a doctor today." She fished a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes then blew her nose. Loudly. "And a handsome one, too." She smiled through her tears at her daughter.

"Yeah, first a handsome lawyer, now a handsome doctor," Jo's younger sister, Jamila, laughingly noted. She and her mother exchanged rueful looks when they saw Jo subtly lower her eyes at the reference to her deceased husband, Sean Moore.

"B-but, that's a good thing," Racquel nervously added, trying to cover for her younger daughter's carelessness. "These nice, young men know a good woman when they meet her." She frowned and swiped a hand at Jamila behind Jo's back, then schooled her features back into a forced smile when Jo raised her eyes again.

"Sorry, Jo, didn't mean to say anything to bring you down," Jamila said apologetically.

Jo turned to them both with a bright smile on her face and said, "Oh, don't worry, hermanita. Nothing can spoil my happiness today." She took both of Jamila's hands in hers and squeezed them. "And I'm sure that Sean is smiling down on us right now."

vvvv

Karen Hanson had gladly given Jo full use of their master bedroom in order to prepare for the ceremony. She had ached to be up there, also, helping with Jo's hair and wardrobe, but realized that her managerial skills were sorely needed downstairs with the guests and in the kitchen. Especially in the kitchen. Her Hanson boys (including the biggest one, her husband, Mike) had to be kept away from the hors d'oeuvres and that $15,000 cake at all cost! Henry had shared with her, the secret hidden within the cake for Jo. But it was time. She sent Mike up to notify Jo so he could walk her down the stairs and down the aisle. Or rather, the makeshift aisle in their living room. They'd cleared out all the furniture and borrowed folding chairs from their church's bingo hall to accommodate the 27 guests. That didn't include the minister and the three-member catering staff.

They both had been proud and elated that Jo asked Mike to give her away. That is, after they'd gotten over the shock of finding out that she and Henry had been secretly engaged for months and their wedding was only a few days away.

 _"Jo, you sure? I mean, yeah, I'd be more than happy to, but I don't wanna step on anybody's toes here."_

 _"Well, since you're always acting like my big brother, trying to protect me, giving me advice - "_

 _"Which you usually ignore," he pointed out, wagging a finger at her._

 _She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. "Look, you want the job or not?"_

 _"Yeah!" They then laughed and bear-hugged each other._

As the organist, Jo's Aunt Valentina, played the first chords of "Here Comes the Bride", Mike felt Jo's hand grip his arm tighter. He glanced down at her as they approached the small staircase and asked if she was all right. She clutched her bouquet and assured him with a quick nod and a nervous, but happy smile, that she was. He patted her hand with his other hand and they descended the stairs.

All eyes were on her as they made their way up the aisle. She couldn't believe it. She was actually getting married to Henry Morgan, who, a few years ago, she'd described as the weirdest, creepiest guy she'd ever met. A few family members and friends from the NYPD and OCME were in attendance - even Lt. Reece. She had decided to come, despite previously declining because of departmental rules that discouraged her to fraternize with her subordinates. As they passed by her, Jo could swear that she saw Reece dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her shoulders shaking.

On the same row was Lucas and his new girlfriend, Miriam, both with ear-to-ear smiles. Next to Lucas was Paul Fields and his girlfriend, Sylvia Manning. She'd met them only once when Henry had invited them over for dinner. Henry had taken the opportunity to share his secret with Paul, who'd laughed heartily at having had his suspicions confirmed about him. The four of them looked forward to cultivating their friendship.

A few rows up, she saw Fawn Mahoney, Abe's childhood sweetheart, who smiled and winked at her. Next to her were his friend, Morty, and his two Vietnam vet friends, Marcus and Jerry.

Drawing closer to the front where Henry stood, she focused solely on him. Astonishingly handsome, as usual, she'd left it up to him to keep his scruff or go with the clean shaven look. He'd chosen clean shaven, which made him look even younger than his actual 35 years. His dark brown curls with chestnut highlights were expertly, suavely tamed. Dressed in a meticulously well-tailored black tuxedo, an ivory-colored dress shirt, pink champagne-colored cummerbund - how did he know? - and a pink carnation in his lapel, he looked just fabulous. But how did he know to have his tailor coordinate his outfit with the colors in hers? She couldn't be angry, though; not while he looked at her with those incredible eyes of his, filled with such complete love.

vvvv

From the moment she'd appeared on the stairs, his eyes had not left her. Perhaps he had even barely breathed, taking in her unbelievable beauty. It was as if an angel had descended from Heaven in the form of Josefina Martinez and ... saved him. He realized that he was a lucky man to have been saved by the love of a good woman even once in his long life. But twice? That was pushing the limits of what the universe allowed for true happiness to be bestowed on one person, wasn't it?

His lips refused to work themselves into a smile and he hoped that he didn't look too serious, too solemn. But a smile was too small a gesture for this moment. Instead, he was rooted to the spot; in awe of the woman approaching him. The fact that she had accepted him not only as a friend first but now as a life companion still left him awestruck. Grateful. He felt totally undeserving to even be in her presence. Her gaze eventually locked with his and the fluttering in his heart increased as she grew closer. The dawning realization that spread over her face as she took in their color-coordinated apparel finally helped his smile emerge. She said nothing, though, as they now stood only a foot apart from each.

"Who gives this woman to this man?" the minister asked with great ceremonial aplomb.

Mike squared his shoulders and responded in kind. "I do."

He allowed Jo to release her grip on his arm and step forward to stand by Henry's side. They really did make a good-looking couple, he thought, and temporarily forgot that his part in the ceremony was over. Quickly gathering his wits about him, he cleared his throat and scooted away, sliding into the empty seat next to his wife which generated a few titters and raised eyebrows from all in attendance.

The minister, Paul Romero, had known Jo's family since she was a child. He had not had the privilege of officiating at her first wedding but was proud and happy that she'd chosen him this time.

Right before the ceremony, Jamila had given Minister Romero a decorative box that held 13 gold coins that she had been safekeeping. He had turned them over to Abe, the best man, to hold until they were required. The "Dearly beloved" portion over, the coins were now introduced into the ceremony and their significance explained.

Minister Romero: "The symbolism of the 13 gold coins in this ceremony is that the groom recognizes his responsibility as a provider, and pledges his ability to support and care for his wife. Acceptance by the bride means taking that trust and confidence unconditionally with total dedication and prudence." He paused, gripping his bible to his chest, a sheepish look on his face, and continued.

"Of course, in today's day and age, either or both spouses can 'bring home the bacon' (mild laughter) but it is an old, tradition that has its roots in Spain. Today, it is more symbolic of the trust and confidence pledged between two betrotheds." He breathed in deeply and jokingly added, "Not whose paycheck is bigger." (more laughter).

"As I count out the 13 coins and place them in the groom's (Henry's) hands, they also represent different values that the couple desire to share between themselves: love, harmony, cooperation, commitment, peace, happiness, trust, respect, caring, wisdom, joy, wholeness and nurturing. May these coins be a symbol of this couple's mutual love, fidelity and trust.

"Henry, please repeat after me."

"I, Henry, give you, Josefina, these 13 coins as a symbol of my unquestionable trust and confidence I place in you as my beloved wife. As we unite our lives today I share all material responsibility with you." He dropped the coins one by one into her cupped, open hands, then placed the closed, decorative box into her hands on top of the coins.

"Josefina, please repeat after me."

"I, Josefina, accept these coins and assure you of my dedication in sharing our possessions and my total and unconditional love."

"In exchanging these coins, Henry and Josefina are essentially saying, 'What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine'."

"I bless these coins knowing that they are also symbolic of the unlimited good the universe has in store for this loving couple. I accept this for Henry and Josefina. And so it is, in Yeshua's name, Amen."

The coins were placed back into the box and passed back to Abe. It was now time for the exchange of vows.

"Do you, Henry William Morgan, take this woman ... " (I do).

"Do you, Josefina Patricia Martinez, take this man ... (I do).

"The rings, please."

"With this ring, I, thee wed ... " (Henry).

"With this ring, I, thee wed ... " (Jo).

"By the power vested in me by the City, County, and State of New York, I now pronounce you, husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

The newlyweds, at first, appeared nervous as they hesitated just a second, their faces inches apart, unspoken words of love shared in their gazes. But at each other's touch, they quickly closed the gap between themselves.

As their lips met, their eyes closed and in that moment, the world had a population of only two. They moved their heads gently from side to side, he, with arms wrapped around her waist, clutching her to him; she, caressing the back of his head and pulling him ever closer with her other arm draped around his shoulders. They deepened the kiss and took it to a serious level, prompting the others to drop their eyes or roll them slowly away from them in order to give them some privacy.

Just when Abe was about to clear his throat or nudge his father with an elbow, the couple pulled themselves apart, blushing from the sudden re-awareness of the others around them.

Minister Romero calmed his slight grin into a more sedate smile and announced, "Let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads as he prayed out loud.

"Father in Heaven, You ordained marriage for Your children, and You gave us love. We present to You, Henry and Josefina, who came this day to be married. May the covenant of love they made be blessed with true devotion and spiritual commitment."

"We thank You for giving them the ability to keep the covenant they have made:

"When selfishness shows itself, grant generosity; when mistrust is a temptation, give moral strength; when there is misunderstanding, give patience and gentleness. If suffering becomes a part of their lives, give them a strong faith and an abiding love. And so it is, in Yeshua's name, Amen."

The minister instructed the newlyweds to turn and face the congregation, which they did, still blushing a bit and tightly holding each other's hand.

"I present to the world, Mr. Henry Morgan and Mrs. Josefina Martinez-Morgan. God bless you all."

The wedding march was played and everyone jumped to their feet, applauding enthusiastically as the couple walked back down the aisle and out the side door into the backyard that had been set up for the reception. The crowd followed them outside while Abe executed another of his best man duties and monetized the minister.

He then walked over to join Fawn, kissed her on the cheek, and wearily confessed, "Thought I'd never live to see the day." Fawn rolled her eyes playfully at him and tugged him by the arm to join the others outside.

vvvv

So, that's the end of this long tale. As the sun sets in the East (screee-eech!) Oh, you guys wanna know what the secret was inside the cake? Adam's official death certificate! LOL jk. No. Two, one-way, first-class tickets to Paris, France. I'm not sure how much that actually costs, but the caterer was so jazzed by Henry's idea to surprise Jo in that manner, that he didn't charge them for the cake, at all. He figured that he could use Henry's idea as a marketing tool to entice future customers.

END (for real)


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